The Lost Secret
by susan3241
Summary: Rachel's a thirteen year old girl who discovers that her parents aren't who she thinks they are. What happens when Rachel finds out that her biological parents are living in Washington DC? [Rated T for safety, BBish, futurefic.] Please R&R!
1. Unanswered Questions

**A/N:** Hello! This is my first attempt at a Bones Fan Fiction on this site. It's been edited my yours truly, but that doesn't necessarily mean that it's error free. It's also highly improbable, but don't let that discourage you. Oh, and in this chapter, Brennan and Booth and the squints don't make an appearance. Bear with me...they are essential to the story! That said, they will make an appearance in the chapters to come:o) Happy reading!

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**CHAPTER 1**

Rachel twirled the ring on her finger absently. Her mind wandered to the time when he mother gave her the ring. She was only six; she didn't fully appreciate the gravity of the situation.

"Rach, honey, I want you to have this. It's special, really special. Can you promise that you'll take good care of it for Mommy?" Her mom bent down and handed the silvery heirloom to the trembling child.

Rachel remembered the thoughts that swam through her head at the time. It was her birthday, and all of the festivities that ensued were dying down. She was decked out in a pretty pink jumper, and she vaguely recalled her flowery tights getting on her last nerve. _Special…that means I have to be careful._

Spurred by the burning curiosity of a six-year-old, she extended her hand more than eagerly and happily received the gift. "What is it?" Rachel had asked.

"A ring, dear. I'm giving it to you to have for keeps, but you need to understand something for me, okay?"

Rachel only nodded.

"You need to promise that you won't hurt it. It's valuable."

Rachel smiled at the fond memory. She knew now that giving a ring to a child as young as she was wasn't a bright idea on anyone's part. But Rachel had always been different; she had always been mature for her age, both in her mannerisms and appearance. You never caught Rachel with her tongue stuck to an icy pole or stealing a cookie from the tempting jar perched up on the highest shelf before dinner. She hated messes and stickiness; all of her clothes were kept clean upon her insistence. In short, she was a good girl.

Rachel clutched the ring tightly in her right hand, and from that day forward, she was true to the covenant. There wasn't a scratch or blemish or flaw to speak of to this day.

Now at thirteen, Rachel smiled to herself as she examined the loop of silver placed gingerly on her finger. The front was sculpted into small loops, and if the light caught it just right, the small crystals glimmered before her eyes.

She still didn't understand the significance of the ring. Yes, it was pretty. But why give it to her at six? Sure, it may have been considered an extra birthday gift, but it just didn't seem like an appropriate present. A Barbie doll seemed to be more suitable for a six-year-old girl.

When Rachel first got it, it didn't fit on her slim, skinny fingers, so she stored it for safe keeping in the confines of her velvety jewelry box. It didn't go forgotten, though; every night before bed, she'd lift the top of the box, just to be sure it was still there. It always brought a smile to her face.

At ten, it fit on her middle finger. She proudly showcased it around the house, making sure that _everyone_ knew that the ring belonged to her. Whenever she made a big to-do about it in front of her mother, Rachel noticed that though she smiled, there was a bit of sadness carefully tucked away behind it.

That had always been a talent of hers: reading people. She could tell a lie from a truth with her eyes closed, even if it was the first time she had ever met the person.

When Rachel was twelve, the ring finally fit where it rightly should have from the start: on her right ring finger. It brought Rachel a reassuring sense of confidence. She wasn't entirely certain as to why, but she liked it. Consequently, she didn't question it.

Rachel's eyes wandered from the ring to the mirror on her dresser. That was another thing Rachel had going for her: the gift of beauty. Though she wasn't sure where if came from, Rachel was graced with wavy, auburn locks of hair. Her eyes were the very definition of perfect: an almost icy blue. These features only served to accent her slim build.

The corner of her eye then caught on the plaque tucked casually in the corner of her dresser. _THE FIFTEENTH ANNUAL PENNSLYVANIA STATE SCIENCE FAIR 2006: FIRST PLACE JUNIOR DIVISION, RACHEL WOOD. _The memory brought a smile to her face. In addition to the pretty face, Rachel was a smart one, too. She loved science, and she had proved to excel in the field.

Yes, Rachel had a lot of things going for her. She was destined to succeed, even though she was raised in a simple suburban home in Camden, Pennsylvania.

A knock on the door interrupted Rachel's scattered thoughts. "Rach?" The face of her mom poked through the crack in the door. "Can you be a doll and head up to the attic when you get the chance?"

Her mom…Goodness, she was Rachel's exact opposite. She had blondish hair and brownish eyes, and as much as Rachel hated to admit it, her mother was no treat to look at. Her face was plump and filled-out. Years of wrinkles defined her pale features. Rachel had to wonder where she got her auburn hair and blue eyes, especially after a glance at her father.

He was no delight, either. His black, disheveled hair only served to accentuate his rugged features and heavy set body. He wore these thick, plastic glasses, and he kept them on the tip of his nose, making his eyes appear considerably smaller than usual. Rachel had to wonder how he kept them on all day.

Rachel's siblings seemed to a combination of her parents. Her fifteen-year-old sister, Beth, had her mom's eyes and her father's hair. Beth was tall, and by no means thin, but you couldn't help but to like her. Brandon was eleven. He took after her dad, all muscle and brawn without much brain.

Rachel couldn't help but to feel out of place. She couldn't honestly name a trait that she shared with her brother or sister or mother or father. And that formidable feeling seemed to lurk around more often than Rachel cared to admit. Often times, when a stranger brought mentioned that lack of similarity, she just shrugged off her feelings of insecurity.

"Yeah, sure, Mom. What do you need?" Rachel asked, already hopping off her bed and approaching the door for further instruction.

"It's just a box labeled 'Christmas Decorations, 1997.' It shouldn't be too difficult to find. I need it for tomorrow."

Rachel nodded. "I'll bring it down before dinner."

Thoughts of tomorrow drifted into her head as she maneuvered her way up the attic steps. The annual Wood Family garage sale was scheduled. Rachel had always found the event to be annoying; the family always made a big to-do about it. Rachel couldn't see the thrill in sifting through years of clutter that had been tucked away in the cobwebby corners of the attic for good reasons.

Absently, she shoved a few boxes around. She smiled when she saw a box labeled 'Christmas Decorations, 1997.' That was easier than expected. _At least I don't have to spend hours digging through junk._

As Rachel began her descent down the stairs, something caught her eye. It was a trunk. At first glance, it was just a trunk. The handle was rusted, and a thin layer of dust seemingly sealed it shut. Intrigued, she set the Christmas decorations down and pried the trunk open.

A layer of torn papers were spread before her, and Rachel gingerly lifted them. A closer look told her that they were just newspapers. She quickly piled them in her hand and set those aside, too. Underneath the clutter, she found a box.

This box wasn't made of cardboard. It was cherry wood, and it was obviously here for a reason. Rachel heaved the wooden case out of the trunk. It was heavy; it took more than a few seconds to get it resting on her lap.

Rachel dusted her hands on the sides of her legs and set to opening the box. Her heart quickened at what she saw. Her palms perspired, and suddenly it seemed as though the attic walls were closing in on her. No, it couldn't be. It just couldn't be. Not Rachel. Never Rachel.

The envelope was old and yellowed with age. Scrawled in shaky, bluish ink was written:_ Adoption Papers: Rachel Anne Wood._ With her shaky hands, Rachel gingerly lifted the flap that could hold the key to the truth.

She slipped out the forms. They were very official looking: a bunch of legal mumble-jumble was typed across the top, followed by the signatures of Steven and Lauren Wood, her legal guardians. According to these papers that Rachel held in her hands, Mr. and Mrs. Steven Wood were Rachel Wood's legal guardians, and nothing more. They weren't her biological parents.

The world seemed to stop. Time seemed to stop. Rachel couldn't control the thoughts that swirled through her mind. _Adoption…Closed adoption…Not real parents…Parents could be dead…Oh dear God!_

Something slipped between the forms. It was a Polaroid picture of a smiling man and woman. With her still shaky hands, she flipped it over to the back. In messy script, Rachel read the words, "Me and Bones." Bones? Who was "Bones?" More importantly, who was "me?"

Quickly, she flipped the photograph over to the front. The woman was the very definition of perfection. Her delicate figure was dressed in a simple bluish coat of sorts, and something was monogrammed in white along the breast-pocket. It was too blurry for Rachel to make any sense of it.

The woman's eyes were a clear blue, and Rachel's heart nearly stopped when she realized that they were exact replicas of her own. She had auburn, wavy locks that rested just so on her shoulders, and Rachel had to look away for a moment to gather her thoughts. There was too much of a resemblance to be coincidental.

The man was one of most handsome Rachel had ever seen. His smile eerily reminded Rachel of her own: it obviously possessed the power to persuade. His suit was fitted to his muscular physique, and it probably cost a pretty penny. Of course, this time the resemblance wasn't quite as blatant. You had to squint to notice it really. There was something about him, though, that reminded Rachel very much of herself, and that thought scared her to no end.

Though she wanted to ignore it, Rachel knew that her "parents" were probably going to start thinking something was wrong if she didn't make an appearance soon.

Gathering her thoughts, she tucked the Polaroid safely away in her pants pocket and shoved the forms back into their proper envelope. In a rush, she threw the papers in the wooden case, and then tossed the box inside the trunk, quickly concealing the cherry wood with the pile of newspapers again.

She practically ran down the attic steps, clutching the box of Christmas decorations in her arms. Once she was in the safety of her bedroom, she plopped down on her mattress and started to sob.

She wasn't Rachel Wood. She wasn't the daughter of Steven and Lauren Wood. She wasn't the sister of Beth and Brandon Wood. And that's what scared her: she didn't know who she was, but she was going to have to find out.

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So what do ya think? Reviews make me happy!


	2. A Mother

Hello, again! I decided to post the next chapter earlier than I had originally intended. If you're reading, please don't be shy! Drop a review! I promise I don't bite...

**Disclaimer:** I fogot to mention this in the first chapter. I don't own Bones. Please, don't sue me, as I cannot afford being buried in lawyer fees. The same thing goes for the fisrt chapter.

**CHAPTER 2**

Rachel couldn't think; she couldn't feel. And she didn't want to, either. All she wanted to do was cry, so she did. A lot.

They weren't there for her first steps. They weren't there for her first words. They weren't there when she blew out the lone candle on her first birthday. They weren't there when she learned how to tie her shoes. They weren't there when she fell off her bike and broke her left arm. They weren't there on her first day of kindergarten. They weren't there for the last day of kindergarten. They weren't there when she lost her first tooth. They weren't there for any Christmas morning. They weren't there when she won her first science fair. And they _definitely_ weren't there for her now.

Rachel could have handled knowing that she was adopted. She really could have. After all, Rachel was a strong girl. She was capable of dealing with high stress situations. It wouldn't even have been a stressful situation had she known from the get-go. Lots of children were adopted; it didn't make her less of a person.

But did they have to hide it from her? But did she have to find out like this? No. And that's what hurt the most.

Rachel didn't need to steal a glance at the mirror to know she was a wreck. She could feel her swollen, puffy eyes throbbing. Absently, she swiped at the dry, sticky tracks of tears that had escaped from her eyes.

Rachel was certain of one thing: she couldn't let her parents know. She was already in an awkward position as it was; there was no need to add salt to the wound. They'd try and stop her from uncovering the truth. Perhaps they'd even try and cover up their lies. If Rachel was going to do this, she was going to do this right.

Hopping to her feet, she tip-toed over to the bedroom door and opened it a crack. When she was sure that no one was nearby, she made a dash for the bathroom. Showing up at the dinner table looking as she did wouldn't serve to ward off suspicions.

Flicking on the sink, she grabbed a towel from the hamper. She relished the feeling of the cool cloth against her warm face; it solaced her. Rachel knew that things were going to change. She wasn't going to just sit there knowing that her real parents were out there. Maybe they weren't even out there. Perhaps they were dead.

She shuddered. Her parents: dead. Her parents that hadn't existed as of an hour ago: dead. _Don't jump to conclusions. Never jump to conclusions. It won't help you. It just won't. You have no evidence supporting that theory, _she told herself in a feigned effort to soothe her nerves.

But she knew deep down that there was evidence to prove her parents to be dead. People didn't give up their children for just any reason. There had to be a logical explanation for leaving Rachel in the arms of another. There just had to be.

Rachel could only think of two reasons that fit the evidence. Firstly: her parents were delusional drunks. If they were alcoholics, they wouldn't be fit to raise her. If they weren't fit to raise her, she would be handed over to the system. If she was handed over to the system, she could have very well ended up in the care of the Wood Family.

Still, the people in the picture didn't seem like drunks. They seemed…happy. Those smiles, that undeniable connection between the man and woman…those were all signs of happiness.

Rachel decided that it was safe to rule out that her parents were drunks.

The second reason made her sick to the stomach: her parents were deceased. If they were deceased, there was no possible way for them to raise her. If they weren't fit to raise her, she would be handed over to the system. If she was handed over to the system, again, she was stuck with the Wood Family.

The numbing sensation invading her head told her that there was no evidence allowing her to rule out that her parents were dead.

Who were her parents, anyway? She only had a picture, just a measly picture of them. Oh, and it said"Me and Bones"Who was the heck was Bones?

According to the papers, the adoption was closed. Rachel had nothing, nada, not one ounce of anything that could lead her in the right direction, and she had an eerie feeling that whoever did this wanted it that way.

A glance in the mirror told her that she was ready to face her parents at the dinner table. The puffiness of her eyes had gone down, and her tear tracks were cleaned. But that didn't mean she wanted to join the family for dinner; how was she supposed to face the two people that had deliberately lied to her for thirteen years?

Grabbing the box of Christmas decorations that had gotten her into this mess in the first place, she trotted down the stairs and greeted her dad with a grim smile.

Rachel plopped the box down on the table and listened as the ornaments rattled in between the packaging peanuts. "Here are those decorations Mom wanted from the attic."

Her dad gave her a nod of approval and set a plate of salad on the place mat in front of Rachel. "Eat up," he said. "Beth and Brandon should be down soon. Mom went to the store, so she should be back in few minutes. I polished off the last of the milk last night, and it must've slipped my mind to tell her. She went to get more."

That was another thing: Beth wasn't her sister, and Brandon wasn't her brother. As she munched on the lettuce, she realized that she didn't like that. No, Rachel didn't like that one bit. She wanted a sister. She wanted a brother. But now, Rachel was forced to face the fact that she didn't have any siblings. She didn't even have parents.

Beth came clunking down the stairs, and Brandon followed not far behind. Dinner went on without disruption; Rachel's mom made it home in time before the spaghetti and meatballs got cold.

Rachel was unusually quiet, though no one seemed to notice. Suddenly, she felt as though she was an intruder. Rachel obviously hadn't belonged, and now she knew why. Truth be told, she really _didn't_ belong. She was merely a guest to the Wood household. Beth wasn't adopted. Brandon wasn't adopted. Rachel was, and that made her different.

_Do Beth and Brandon know?_ That was an interesting thought. Maybe they did. Maybe they didn't. But more than likely they didn't. Even if there had been subtle hints along the way, Beth and Brandon would have been too daft to notice. Rachel was a bright girl, and even she had been blissfully oblivious.

"Come on, Rachel," Brandon said after throwing the crust of a slice of garlic bread on his plate. "I wanna play checkers again."

Rachel rolled her eyes. That was _all_ Brandon ever wanted to play. It wasn't so much as she minded playing checkers with her so-called brother. No, it was more like they played the _same_ game _every_ night after dinner. Couldn't he be crazy and pick something like chess? Or even _Chinese_ checkers? Would a little change kill him?

Then a startling thought occurred to Rachel: _He's not my brother. I don't have to do anything for him._ Rachel had to fight back the urge to let the tears tumble.

Soon her whole family had joined Rachel and Brandon in the family room, as they did every night. The television blared in the background. Her father flipped through the inky pages of the local newspaper, resulting in an irritating scraping sound. Beth was carrying on with her mom about some crazy dance next Friday night.

Rachel could barely concentrate on the not-so rousing game of checkers before her. Her mind kept wandering.

"King me!" Brandon yelled. He took two of Rachel's jumped pieces and greedily piled them with the rest of the jumped checkers on his side of the board. "King me!"

Rachel sighed. She decided that she was going to let the eleven-year-old win tonight. She figured that it would boost his self-confidence. Rachel _always_ won. She was only returning the favor.

Absently, her eyes wandered to the television screen. It was a national news live broadcast. _Roadside truck in Baghdad bombed. Two Americans found dead,_ flashed across the screen. Couldn't they broadcast something happy for a change?

As if in response to that last thought, the voice of a pretty, blond reporter filled Rachel's ears. "Tonight we've got a special treat for you all. I'm here with forensic anthropologist and best-selling author Doctor Temperance Brennan."

Rachel sighed again, this time more audibly. What was a forensic-whatever-the-heck-they-just-called-her anyway? Without much further thought, she slid one of her checkers down diagonally across the board, knowing that she handed Brandon a most obvious jump. He'd have to be blind to miss it.

"In your books, we follow Kathy Reichs, who shares the same occupation as yourself. Would you care to explain, Dr. Brennan, a little bit about what the both of you do as forensic anthropologists?" asked the bubbly reporter.

This Doctor Brennan's voice was deep and husky, and she seemed very abrupt. "I work with decomposed corpses that cannot be identified, sometimes murder victims, sometimes war casualties. Using the victim's bones, my team and I at the Jeffersonian Institute in Washington D.C. are able to give the victim his or her identity back. We also provide the courts with pivotal evidence essential in closing the case."

Rachel's stomach went queasy. What a strange job!

Still gazing at the checker board, Rachel thought that this Doctor Brennan person seemed nervous. Her voice was slightly shaky, and her answer seemed to be well-rehearsed, almost as if she had practiced it many times before sitting down for the interview.

The next question seemed to be more difficult to answer for her. "All of this crime work must mean that you work closely with the FBI. How close is your relationship with them, exactly?"

Rachel was now more interested with the television than she was with the less than riveting game of checkers with Brandon. She lifted her head for a look at the screen. The camera was still focused on the blond reporter. Rachel had to stifle a laugh when she noticed that the woman's tacky, pink lipstick was smudged on her teeth.

Slowly the camera shifted to the pretty doctor sitting opposite of the reporter. Whatever came out of Doctor Temperance Brennan's mouth next was lost to Rachel. She dropped the checker with a _clunk_, followed by the vibrating thud of a plastic ridge against cardboard.

Rachel would know that face anywhere now. She'd be able to pick it out of a crowd of thousands of people. That auburn hair, those clear blue eyes, that slight frame, that soft smile…They all belonged to the woman in the Polaroid. They all belonged to Rachel Wood's mother.

_My mom…alive…she's alive…she's not dead…she's very much living…and her name is Temperance Brennan…Doctor Temperance Brennan. That's my mom. That's my beautiful mother. Mine. All mine._

The voice of her mom, the mom that Rachel had always known, broke through Rachel's thoughts. "Rachel? Honey? Are you alright, dear?"

Rachel could only nod. She wasn't alright. How could she be alright? First she found out that she was adopted, and now she learned that she has a living mother named Doctor Temperance Brennan. And all in the same day! That knowledge didn't exactly provide for a settled stomach.

Rachel didn't even realize that she had opened her mouth to speak. "I'm…I guess I don't feel very well. Just…tired, I guess. I'm going to go to bed now, if that's alright."

"Sure, honey. Good night," her mom said.

Without bothering to murmur a response, she hurried out of the room, unable to deal with anyone, especially the face on the television screen. Rachel just barely made it up the stairs and in her bedroom before she collapsed on the wooden floor. Her whole body shook with sobs.

Rachel had a mother…and her name was Doctor Temperance Brennan…and she was alive and well.

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Okay, y'all, reviews make me happy!!! 


	3. A Father

**A/N:** Hello, again! Judging by the number of hits I get for the story (there are 241), I'd say that you like the story, but if I were to go off the number of reviews, it appears that there is little interest. That's totally fine, but if you guys like the story, don't be afraid to drop a review!!! For those who did take the time, thank you, _thank you_, _**thank you**_! They're very much appreciated! ;-)

**A/N #2:** This chapter is slightly different because it contains an article pertaining to...well, you'll see. The article is in italic, so it should be easy to understand.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Bones. I own the plot and Rachel, but that's the extent of it. :-(

**-CHAPTER 3-**

The bright red numbers of the digital clock were burned to the back of Rachel's closed eyelids: 1:18. She couldn't sleep. She tossed and turned, hoping to see if one side of the bed would prove to be more comfortable than the other. Both sides were equally lumpy.

To try to soothe herself, she whispered the name softly, "Temperance."

It was such a beautiful name…the way it sounded; the way it felt on Rachel's lips…It was just perfect. The syllables rang through Rachel's head long after it had been spoken…Tem-per-ance. It was a beautiful name.

Rachel couldn't take it anymore. In a flurry, she tossed the piles of blankets off her legs and onto the floor. Sleep wasn't an option at this point. She slowly tip-toed over to the door and grabbed the bathrobe off the hook nearby her bed. But Rachel couldn't bring herself to turn the knob just yet. Instead, she rested her forehead lightly against the whitewashed wooden door, trying to gather her thoughts.

This wasn't her home. It was the Woods' home, not hers, because Rachel wasn't a Wood. Her rightful name was Rachel Brennan. She was truly the daughter of Doctor Temperance Brennan. She shuddered. That last thought triggered a new cluster of tears to gather around the edge of her eyes, blurring her vision.

Why? Why had she been left with the Wood Family? It didn't make sense. The woman on the television screen seemed neither drunk nor dead. There had to be another reason. Perhaps it had something to do with the man in the picture. Maybe he was dead, whoever he was. But that still left Rachel with one parent to care for her. Things simply weren't adding up.

Rachel had already tried to seek out a memory of her infanthood. She thought that, maybe, just maybe, she'd find one of her mysterious father. It didn't work; there wasn't even a faded, blurry image to speak of, not even one of Steven Wood.

Rachel realized that standing there with her head pressed to the door wasn't all that productive. If she were to continue to do nothing, as she was right then, there was no chance of finding her real parents.

Cautiously, she turned the doorknob and ventured out to the hallway. The bare window at the head of the hall basked the narrow passage in the eerie glow of moonlight. A closer look told Rachel that the door leading to her parents' room was shut, as was that of Beth's and Brandon's bedrooms. Rachel sighed relief. There would be less of a chance of waking them now.

Still on her tip-toes, she waddled over to the staircase and began her descent. Though Rachel didn't consciously realize where her feet were taking her, she trusted her instincts. That was something she was going to have to learn to do from now on, she decided.

Once she reached the family room, she hunched down on her knees to press the round button that would bring the computer to life. Then she situated herself in the leather swivel chair and waited. Rachel had never been good at waiting. Even she had to admit that. Most people would describe her as an impatient, stubborn girl. No one in the Wood Family possessed those qualities, and now, Rachel could attribute those characteristics to either of her birth parents.

As the computer booted, Rachel vaguely pondered what it would be like to meet her mother face to face. Would Temperance be happy? Would she embrace Rachel with open arms and welcome her as kin? Or would she be hostile and push her away and reject her? Rachel tried to hold back the urge to cry again. There was no way of knowing. After all, Temperance gave her own child up. That didn't exactly scream tender love and care.

Shaking off that last thought, she double clicked on the big, blue "e." With her shaky hands, she typed the words _Doctor Temperance Brennan_ into the search box. The anticipation and promise that lingered was too much for Rachel to handle; she had to look away while the computer processed her request. It was all happening too fast.

After what felt like an eternity, Rachel returned her troubled gaze to the computer screen which had revealed the top ten results of the search. She brought her trembling hand to the mouse and shifted it towards the first result. After a deep breath, she clicked.

_Doctor Temperance Brennan works as a forensic anthropologist at the Jeffersonian Institute in Washington D.C. She specializes in identifying human remains, but not without the help of her "squint squad." Her work doesn't stop in the lab; she's also a critically acclaimed novelist whose books following the life of forensic anthropologist Kathy Reichs fly off the shelves. Check out the following interview for the inside scoop._

Her mother was an author. Rachel was smiled slightly. Was she supposed to be happy? Was she supposed to be sad? All of those writing contests that Rachel had won in the past, all those A's in English class…the talent must have been inherited.

So her own mother was a famous author, writing books about death and murder and decomposed corpses. Not only that, but she was a forensic anthropologist. What kind of person worked with dead people for a living?

_The smart kind,_ Rachel told herself with a small smile.

The science fairs, the near perfect report cards…things were starting to fall into place before Rachel's eyes.

**Q:**_ It must be quite an emotional strain facing murder day after day. Do you ever find it difficult, or at least nauseating?_

**A:**_ My line of work is quite rewarding. You're left with a satisfying feeling once you've caught a murderous bastard. Knowing that, it's easier to disregard the emotions triggered and focus solely on the task at hand. In short, no and no._

Was her mother a cold-hearted person? How can you not feel anything when you touch a dead body? Wouldn't you want to cry, or at least find the nearest restroom? Rachel couldn't imagine standing not feet away from a rotting corpse; she'd want to gag. All that emotional turmoil would tear Rachel up inside. The stress of the job would be too much for Rachel to ever handle.

Still, she couldn't help but to smile again. Her mother was a strong woman. She had brains and beauty, and she used it well.

**Q:**_ Oh. Well, this job must be difficult to handle on your own. Can you describe some of your associates at the Jeffersonian?_

**A:**_My partner, Special Agent Seeley Booth, refers to my associates and I as his "squint squad." He claims that as scientists, we're always squinting at things, hence the name. Our "squint squad" consists of highly intelligible scientists, contrary to their childish nick-name._

Rachel had to stifle a laugh. Squint Squad…what a funny name!

_Our forensic artist, Mrs. Angela Montenegro Hodgins, focuses on the facial reconstructions, and provides us with a face to identify our victim with. Not only is she a great team player, but she is my best friend. Her spark really adds something to our team._

So her mother had a best friend…Angela Montenegro. Rachel decided that she already liked this Angela woman. Anyone who was a friend to her mom was a friend to her, too. Though it sounded silly, Rachel liked knowing that her mom had friends. Rachel just liked knowing that her real mom was out there alive.

_Doctor Jack Hodgins is our entomologist. Using insect growth or animal excrements, he is able to date time of death. He is considered to be one of the most valuable assets to the Jeffersonian._

_Doctor Camille Saroyan works as a forensic pathologist. She deals with the victims that have more skin than bone. Her line of work centers mainly upon bodily fluids, flesh, etc, etc. Though as a forensic anthropologist I am able to theorize cause of death, Dr. Saroyan performs autopsies for confirmation._

_Then there's Doctor Zachary Addy. Once my graduate student, Dr. Addy has proven himself to be a promising, young scientist. As a forensic anthropologist himself, his work is similar to my own, therefore we work closely together on most cases._

Rachel was having a hard time understanding why anyone would choose to go into this field. All of those things that they had to deal with…facing that kind of crap day after day…It just seemed so over-bearing.

Suddenly, Rachel had a newfound respect for scientists. Sure, she always had an aptitude and passion for science, all of which could be explained now, but Rachel felt as though she had a deeper connection to it all. After all, Rachel's own mother used cold hard science to put away criminals…how could you not respect that kind of courage?

_This last member isn't considered to be a squint. Special Agent Seeley Booth works for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He's been my partner of fifteen and a half years. He accompanies me out into the field, as well as in the interrogation room. He has quite the knack for nick-naming things, I'm afraid. Not only does he call my colleagues and I squints, but he addresses me as "Bones." I suppose the name can be attributed to my working with bones and what not. You get used to his antics after some time, I suppose. _

Rachel felt like she couldn't breathe. Her body tensed and her muscles numbed. Suddenly she couldn't think. She couldn't see; she couldn't feel. Everything was so surreal. "Bones" was the name of the woman in the Polaroid. Bones was also the name of her mother. And the "me" was Special Agent Seeley Booth.

Rachel's dad was an FBI agent. An FBI agent! Was this all some sort of sick joke? How could her mother be a world famous novelist slash forensic anthropologist? How could her father be a special agent working with the FBI?

Why wasn't their daughter mentioned in this article? That seemed like a detail that was pretty hard to overlook. Her dad…God, she was a scandal! She wasn't planned, she wasn't intended. She was a mistake! That could be the only reason. It was the only explanation that made sense.

Just merely six or seven hours ago, she was Rachel Wood, the daughter of Lauren and Steven Wood. Now, though, she was Rachel Brennan…no, Rachel Booth, the daughter of Temperance Brennan and Seeley Booth.

Why had she been given up? Both parents were alive. This article here confirmed it! Rachel's head was spinning…things weren't making any sense. For once, Rachel couldn't rely on sense and logic to guide her.

Taking a deep breath, Rachel braced herself and continued on with the interview.

**Q: **_This Agent Booth…does your relationship carry outside of the interrogation room?_

**A: **_My relationship with Agent Booth is strictly platonic. Pursuing romantic interests within the work place can only lead to trouble._

"Liar!" Rachel shouted aloud. "Liar! What about me? I'm proof she's a liar!"

Rachel was shaking with fear and confusion. She wanted to kick and scream and yell at the top of her lungs. She wasn't naïve! She knew better than to think babies were left on doorsteps by storks. She knew better! _I was given up because I was a scandal,_ she told herself as the tears rolled town her face. _I was a scandal! _

Through her muddled thoughts, Rachel figured that her parents had chosen to give her up because she would destroy both of their careers. That had to be it; why else would they give up a perfectly healthy infant? They both maintained well-paying jobs. They could have both raised her!

Rachel bit her lip and tasted the salty, fresh tears. That's all she seemed to be doing lately: crying. She didn't want to read on, but she knew that she had to. If Rachel was ever to going to get anywhere, she had to read.

**Q:**_ Is it true that this Agent Booth is the real-life version of Kathy Reichs's partner, Agent Andy Lister?_

**A:**_ As I've stated many times, all of the characters in my books are fictional. Though many of my colleagues have insisted that they are the inspiration of my characters, I assure them that my work is strictly fantasy, and I assure you of the same thing now. _

_She's probably lying about that, too, _Rachel thought bitterly. _Tomorrow, I'm going to the library. I need to see these stupid books with my own eyes. _

The vehemence of her thoughts scared her. Within the blink of an eye, Rachel had gone from loving her mother to hating her. _Look at the trouble she's caused! What about me? She had me, and then she swatted me away as if I was just an annoying fly on her shoulder, and then she lies about my existence! What kind of mother does that to her own child?_

Rachel suddenly realized that she was dumping all of the blame on just her mother. It was Seeley's fault, too. They shared the blame fifty-fifty.

Wiping the tears away with her sleeve, her eyes hesitantly scanned the screen once more.

**Q:**_ It must be difficult to balance work with family. How do they react to they fit into your life?_

**A:**_ My family isn't involved much with my work._

Rachel scoffed at her reply. _Well, at least that much is the truth._ _Just look at what she did to me!_ Yes, Rachel concurred. Tossing your daughter aside like yesterday's trash would definitely be classified as "isn't involved much."

**Q:**_ Oh, what a shame! Well, if this Agent Booth isn't romantically involved with you, are there any other relationships worth pursuing on the horizon?_

**A:**_ My line of work doesn't really permit for a strong relationship, or even a family of any kind for that matter. _

Suddenly Rachel softened. Maybe that was why. Maybe she wasn't given up because she was a scandal after all. Maybe she was given up because of the danger of her parents' jobs. Her mother had a point: her line of work obviously didn't permit for a family. Perhaps her parents were just trying to protect Rachel.

Just look at how far Rachel had come along without her real parents. She was happy, living a life free from the murder and the gore her parents were faced with on a regular basis. Here, Rachel had the text-book definition of a perfect family: a mother, a father, a sister, a brother. If Temperance and Seeley had kept her, Rachel was certain that she wouldn't have all that she had now. Had Rachel not found the adoption papers, she wouldn't have even known that the Woods weren't her biological family.

Yes, that was it. Rachel could feel it. Her parents gave her up to see her safe, to spare her the horrors they had to deal with on a regular basis. It a twisted sort of way, it was a gesture of love.

**Q:**_ So what's up next for you, Dr. Brennan?_

**A:**_ My latest novel, __Bad to the Bone__, will be out this coming fall. Other than that, I will continue doing what I do best in the lab: working as a forensic anthropologist. _

Rachel smiled a genuine smile for the first time that night. Maybe she shouldn't look for her parents. Maybe she should just let it go, forget about it all. That was clearly how her parents wanted it to be. Perhaps Rachel needed to comply with their wishes.

Still smiling softly, she clicked on the tab that directed her to images. A tear of happiness escaped when she saw a picture of all of them. Or, as her father would put it: the squint squad.

_Pictured above is the team of forensic scientists working at the Jeffersonian Institute in Washington D.C. From left to right: Special Agent Seeley Booth, Doctor Temperance Brennan, Angela Montenegro Hodgins, Doctor Zachary Addy, Doctor Jack Hodgins, and Doctor Camille Saroyan._

They seemed so happy, so normal. Their smiles brought a smile to Rachel's face, too. It was at that instant that Rachel knew what she had to do. She didn't care that her parents had kept their identities a secret from her. She didn't care that her adoptive parents didn't even know who her real parents were. All she cared about was seeing these so-called squints in the flesh.

Already her mind was at work. Clicking on the print icon, she realized that she wasn't going to be able to rest until she saw these people…her real family. As she walked back up the stairs to her bedroom with the printout of her family clutched in her hand, she made a silent promise to herself.

Rachel was going to pay a visit to the Jeffersonian Institute in Washington D.C. She was going to meet her parents. She as going to see Doctor Temperance Brennan and Special Agent Seeley Booth if it was the last thing she did.

* * *

Well, what do you think? Critisism and compliments alike are very welcome! 

-Susan :o)


	4. Decisions

**A/N:** Hello again! This will be the last chapter till next Friday night, seeing as I'll be on my family vacation. Let's see, what else to I have to say...I have lots of lurkers. Please, review!

**Disclaimer:** Bones is not mine, so don't sue! All characters created by my warped mind do, however, belong to me, but that's not saying a heck of a lot. :o)

**-CHAPTER 4-**

"Are you coming, Rach?" Mrs. Wood yelled from the bottom of the staircase.

Rachel sighed. It was her mother's tone that prompted her to spring to her feet, nothing else. She had no burning desire to soak her shirt through with sweat under the stifling summer sun, selling dusty junk at the annual family garage sale, especially considering recent circumstances. Rachel knew that there was no graceful way out of it, though. She had been roped into it from the start.

"Yeah, just gimme a sec!" Rachel called from her bed.

True to her word, Rachel arrived out in the front lawn within minutes. Her eyes scanned the property, and soon she was nodding her head with approval. Six card tables were lined up in three neat rows of two.

One table housed fragile, delicate china sets, old jewelry, and some stone figurines. Another table proudly showcased holiday decorations: old strands of Christmas lights, last year's inflatable jack-o-lantern, and even a cardboard cutout of a turkey. Three tables were draped with clothes, organized by color and size. The last table was piled high with gardening supplies and simple tools like hammers and screwdrivers. An old lawnmower and treadmill were stuck out in front of the tables.

Mrs. Wood approached Rachel and patted her shoulder. "Not quite as much as we had last year, but I suppose that means we've collected less junk, eh?"

Rachel spun around, obviously startled. "Hmm? Oh, yeah, less junk." Her heart took its time quieting. She had been particularly jumpy lately.

With a laugh, Mrs. Wood turned her back to Rachel to go help out a rather chubby, old man who seemed to be interested in the treadmill.

Rachel's gaze wandered over to a family standing nearby one of the tables of clothes. A skinny female hovered over her daughter's back, greedily pawing through the mounds of shirts. Presumably a husband was yelling to his son to stop playing with the lawnmower. The sight brought tears to Rachel's eyes again.

_They're probably perfectly normal…no secret adoption, no FBI dad, no famous author mom…just normal people going garage sailing on a normal day,_ she told herself with disgust.

It really was amazing that the they had managed to keep such a life-altering secret from Rachel for so long. Wouldn't the Woods feel guilty for keeping this from her? Wouldn't they feel to some degree responsible for keeping Rachel from her rightful parents?

"Hey, Rachel, come here for a minute. I've got something to show you," called the gruff voice of Beth.

Sighing, Rachel gathered her wits and joined Beth nearby the table of tools. She couldn't help but to feel somewhat superior to Beth. Rachel was, after all, the daughter of _Doctor_ Temperance Brennan and _Special Agent_ Seeley Booth. And who was Beth? Just the offspring of a homemaker and a plumber.

"What?" Rachel asked, somewhat annoyed that her thoughts had been interrupted for some stupid reason.

Rachel tried to tune out her sister's spiel about the pros and cons of gardening with fertilizer rather than straight soil. It was pointless; how was listening to her sister's newfound knowledge of planting going to help her find her parents?

Just then, Rachel had an idea of sheer brilliance. Quickly, she thought up a lame excuse to get Beth off her back. Her lecture was becoming more and more boring by the second.

"Um, I think I heard Mom calling me, m'kay?" And with that, Rachel trotted off in the direction of her mother.

Mrs. Wood was counting dollar bills when she saw Rachel approaching from the corner of her eye. "Everything alright, dear?" she asked Rachel, not bothering to look up from her sorting.

"Uh, yeah…Hey, Mom, I heard Dad talking about there not being enough…masking tape…and I was wondering if you needed me to head down to the supermarket to get some." Rachel mentally slapped herself…masking tape? Was that _really_ the best she could come up with?

Mrs. Wood set down the pile of bills. "Actually, we could also use some more tacks to hang up signs. Would you mind much, Rach?"

Rachel's face immediately lit up with a smile. "No! Not at all! I'll be back in twenty minutes tops." Rachel didn't give her mother a chance to reply, for she was already bounding towards the shed to grab her bike.

Clumsily, she hooked her helmet on and slung her knapsack on her shoulder. Within minutes she was barreling down the driveway and down the street, but she wasn't headed for the supermarket. She was pedaling at full speed to the local library.

If she was going to find her parents, she was going to need to do it quickly. Rachel was already having difficulty keeping her mind on something, anything, other than her parents. She had to see them. She had to be with them, to hug them, to talk to them. It was killing her inside. There was no way in hell she was ever going to let this go.

She jammed her bike into the rack and fiddled with the lock. There wasn't a moment to spare; she only had twenty minutes to check out every book written by the good doctor _and_ to purchase masking tape and tacks. Why hadn't she been smart enough to have allotted at least a half an hour?

The shelves of dusty, old books were intimidating to say the least. Rachel had to barge her way through several rather tall, stodgy old men and their biddy, gray wives. Rather hastily, she made her way towards the science fiction section and began to sift through titles and authors.

The task proved to be easier than she had anticipated; all seven of her mother's books were lined up next to each other where they should have been alphabetically. A shiver ran down her spine. In her very hands, Rachel held possibly the only bit of contact she could ever hope to have with her mother. It was almost as if they were written to her, for her.

_Nonsense, _she thought. _Temperance didn't write these with the intention of me reading them. She doesn't even know that I know she exists!_

Clutching the books to her chest, Rachel made her way to the librarian's desk. She tapped her foot impatiently while she waited in line. The plump woman ahead of her smelled like a mixture of cheap perfume and pipe tobacco, and her tacky purple dress was probably two sizes too small.

After another few minutes, it was finally her turn. She dropped the books on the counter with a thud and grabbed the yellow library card from her back pocket. She watched the old librarian take her time checking out the books; Rachel thought in vain that if she stared long and hard enough, she'd somehow will the woman to pick up her pace.

As soon as her card was back in her head, she dashed out of the library and threw her books in her knapsack. She probably had ten minutes left to make a dash for the supermarket.

As Rachel strolled through the craft aisle of_ Georgia's Good Ole' Goods: Your Local Supermarket_, she thought about what to do next. Obviously sitting here in the suburbs of Philadelphia wouldn't do, especially when she knew that her real parents were out there.

But it wasn't like Rachel could just walk up to the parents she'd always known and say: "I'm going to Washington D.C. to meet my biological mother and father that as of twenty-four hours ago I had no clue existed." Yeah, that would definitely go over well.

This is when things got complicated. Rachel loved the Wood Family; after, they had raised her. Disregarding all of the facts, Lauren and Steven were her parents. But how could you ignore the existence of real parents? Rachel had to meet them. There was no doubt about it.

And what would happen afterwards? Rachel knew deep down that after meeting them, she wasn't going to be able to leave them. She wasn't going to be able to walk out on her own flesh and blood.

"Excuse me, Miss. That'll be four dollars and fifty eight cents, please."

"Huh?" Rachel looked up, and then realized that she was in line at the supermarket buying tacks and masking tape. "Uh, yeah, sure."

She slammed four crumpled dollars and two quarters, one nickel, and three pennies on the counter. Taking her purchases in hand, she swiftly left the supermarket and hopped on her bike to head for home. She didn't want to be there, but it wasn't like she could hop on a plane and head to Washington D.C. on her own.

"Did you get those tacks, Rachel?" asked Mrs. Wood. She was sticking a neon yellow price tag on a rusted trowel.

"Yeah," Rachel said, extending the shopping bag, "right here."

Thankfully, there seemed to be a lull with business. Rachel took the opportunity to take refuge inside the cool air-conditioning. Beth and Brandon were probably in the backyard playing some silly game, and it was safe to say that her parents hand their hands full with the garage sale.

Rachel booted up the computer and shuddered at the memory of last night. Shaking off the disconcerting thoughts she had muddled in her mind, she quickly logged in and began her work. She had a plan; granted, it was crazy, and she probably had no hope of it ever working, but she knew it was something she had to do for herself. Hesitantly, she dragged the cursor over to the big, blue "e" and double clicked.

Trying to hold back the tears, she typed in the words into the address bar. _What am I doing? What's gotten into me? All of this added stress must be affecting my ability to process common sense, _she told herself. _I shouldn't be doing this. _

And yet Rachel continued on with the deed. She had acted on an impulse, but she didn't care. Drastic times called for drastic measures, and Rachel was fairly certain that this was as a drastic time.

Still trembling, Rachel slowly willed the cursor to click in the box labeled departure. Her heart quickened its pace, and soon it was pounding so loudly Rachel thought that everyone in the house could hear it. She inhaled and typed the letters: P-H-I-L-A-D-E-L-P-H-I-A. Now she was sweating. Before she could give herself the chance to protest, she swiftly brought the cursor down to the arrival box and typed: W-A-S-H-I-N-G-T-O-N D-C. In a rush, she completed the rest of the needed information. Rachel decided to leave tomorrow morning. It was probably best that she didn't give herself the chance to chicken out. When she was satisfied, she clicked the next button.

She quickly scanned the results brought up on the screen. There was a train that left at 6:55 A.M. from 30th Street Station in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and arrived at Union Station in Washington D.C. at 8:15 A.M. The fare was only forty-three dollars, which was less than she had expected.

So it was settled. She printed out the information and shoved the now folded piece of paper in her pocket.

That night, long after the garage sale ended, long after everyone had gone to bed, Rachel stood over her bedside folding a yellow t-shirt. The flap of her brownish, warn leather suit case was bent open, revealing several pairs of folded jeans and a few shirts and sweaters. Tucked to the corner was a pile of all seven of her mother's books.

When she was finally satisfied with her handy-work, she slid the suitcase under the bed. Snuggling in her blankets, Rachel felt somewhat content. She shut her eyes and imagined her parents as they were in the Polaroid, all happy and whatnot. Tomorrow, she'd be in Washington D.C. Tomorrow, she was going to find them.

* * *

Hmm...this is when things get interesting! 


	5. A Chance

**A/N:** Hello! I'm back with a new chapter. I hope you all like it. Thank you for your wonderful comments. They mean lots.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**-CHAPTER 5-**

_Dear Mom and Dad,_

_I know. I know that I screwed up. I know that you're worried sick. I know that I'm hurting you. And I know that there's nothing I can do to make up for it, either. But I need you to know something. I need you to know that I'm safe. I wasn't kidnapped. I'm not dead, and I'm not going to die, either. There's no need to drag the police into this (I realize that you probably will despite me telling you this)._

_I can't say for certain when I'll be back. I can say I won't be for awhile, though. In fact, you'll probably find me before I choose to come back willingly. I needed answers, though, and I couldn't sit here and wait anymore. It was nauseating. Please, understand that. _

_I know that this isn't much of an explanation. You've probably got lots of questions with not many answers, right? And that's how I feel now: lots of questions without many answers. But you'll get your answers with time, and with luck, maybe I will, too._

_Love always,_

_Rachel_

She folded the loose-leaf sheet of paper and set it neatly on the dining room table out it plain sight. Rachel thought it was a good letter. She couldn't tell them everything, but they deserved to know that she was alive.

Sighing, she glanced into the mirror and tried to suppress a giggle. She was a sight. Her lashes were darkened with blue mascara and eyeliner, which accented her glittery sapphire eyes nicely. Her lips sparkled with a pretty, rich crimson color that she had hand selected from her mom's makeup bag. She even took the time to coat it with a clear, glossy substance that made her lips stick together as if sealed with tape. To tie the look together, she added a subtle layer of blush on her cheeks. As much as it pained her, Rachel had spent twenty agonizing minutes perfecting the display.

Even her hair was done just so. She curled every last auburn lock and positioned them so that they framed her face nicely. She had even bothered to glue the style together with strong hairspray.

With her left hand, she scratched absently at her black suit coat. It had three round buttons that closed over a white camisole. The matching skirt was hemmed with a pretty fringe. She wore black, one and a half inch pumps, and her feet were already killing her. The outfit was plain, but very professional looking.

Rachel thought it was a good idea, and looking in that mirror, she knew it was, indeed, an ingenious, foolproof disguise. A thirteen-year-old walking the streets of Philly and DC, jumping trains, and riding subways all by her lonesome would look more than suspicious. Dressing as an attractive twenty-year-old with a high-class job would serve to deflect the eyes of both authorities and criminals alike.

Rachel gave the kitchen a once over. She checked the yellow clock that dangled above the stove. It read 5:02. Swiftly she opened the back door and locked it behind her. Soon her heels were echoing against the cobblestone walkway as she made her way to the yellow taxicab that waited for her arrival patiently. It was a good thing she had remembered to call for a cab before she hopped in the shower.

Hesitantly, she flung the door open and scooted over, suitcase still in hand. The driver seemed to be a nice, old man who was probably retired.

"Where to, Miss?" he asked is a hoarse voice that was obviously run down from years of smoking cigarettes.

"30th Street Station in Philly, please," Rachel said.

The driver mumbled a gruff reply and stepped on the gas.

Rachel let go of a breath she hadn't even realized she had been holding. _I made it,_ she told herself. _You're out of the house._ The thought reassured her, even if only for a few minutes.

Already her mind had concocted several unpremeditated scenarios in which her quest was put on hold. Maybe the family van was already veering the tail end of the cab, with her wild-eyed mother at the wheel, driving like a maniac, trying desperately to stop her daughter's escape.

In a rush of panic, Rachel craned her neck to the back windshield. She sighed relief when her eyes revealed to her only a few lone leaves scraping against the dusty pavement. Rachel's mind was set at ease momentarily.

But not seconds after, her inventive mind was already at work creating another compromising circumstance. She fluttered her eyes shut against the image of an angry cop running along the sidewalk, hollering orders for the cab to pullover.

In a cold sweat, Rachel urged her eyes open and shifted them to one of the windows. There was no cop shouting. In fact, there was nothing but the blended, blurry images of green grass and cheap house paneling. Her heart quieted once more.

_Enough of this,_ Rachel told herself. _You're being irrational. There is no way for your parents to know what you're up to just yet. _Then she gulped. _Yet_. There was no way for them to know _yet_. By using the word _yet_, she was implying that at one point, her flimsy plan would fall flat on its face. Rachel shuddered at the thought of the many consequences that would undeniably ensue when it did.

The curt voice of the cabdriver interrupted her thoughts. "What'ya doin' down in Philly, Ma'am?"

It took a moment for the thought to register with Rachel. "Oh, well, I'm meeting someone." That much was true. Kind of. Okay, so it wasn't even remotely true, but she couldn't just pour out her life story to some second-rate cabdriver.

"A male someone?"

Rachel knotted her brows together in confusion. A male someone? What was that supposed to mean? She racked her brain for a clue, and was left disappointed when she came up dry. "I don't know what that means," Rachel replied, still somewhat mystified.

The man chuckled deeply, and his rough, throaty laugh filled the walls of the cab. "Are you down in these parts to meet a boyfriend, Missy?"

Then realization dawned on Rachel, and immediately her cheeks colored crimson. She mentally slapped herself. How could she be so naïve? Was she that dense? Rachel had always hated how people needed to explain the simplest of things to her. It was definitely not one of her finest attributes.

"Oh, no. I mean…well…no," Rachel answered quickly. She decided to leave it at that with the intention of warding off anymore conversation with the man.

Again he chuckled. "Alright then, Ma'am. Get comfortable. It'll be 'bout a half 'n hour 'er so, 'pending on traffic."

As Rachel had hoped, the next thirty minutes were spent in comfortable silence and deep thinking. Her thoughts were too scattered to focus on reading anything from her mother's books. Besides, she didn't really want to, anyway. Instead, she tried to rationalize what was going on again.

Rachel silently cursed herself for acting on an impulse. She had barely planned this whole thing out. What if she got there only to find out that the squints didn't want her? What if she was stopped on the way by the cops? What if she was kidnapped in the middle of downtown Philadelphia? Rachel tried to shake herself free of such thoughts. There were too many 'what ifs.' If she chose to dwell upon those, she wasn't going to make it past the train station.

Before she could think any further upon the subject, the city of Philadelphia soon wormed its way before Rachel's eyes. The closer the cab approached the city, the tighter the space from bumper to bumper seemed to get. She hadn't anticipated that much congestion, especially considering it was only early morning.

A few skyscrapers came into view, and billboards shouted different praises for various products, ranging from grocery stores to beer. The blacktop already illuminated the morning sun: some of the individual grains even sparkled.

Rachel tried to remember her last visit to the city. It was over a year ago, and soon she came to the bitter realization that she could count the number of times she had been to Philly on just one hand. Rachel scoffed at the idea. Was her life that pathetic? She was thirteen, living not thirty minutes from Philadelphia, yet she had only actually been there three times tops.

The taxicab sped down one of the many exit ramps and began crisscrossing its way down the scattered city blocks. Rachel's mother had always told her that the city was no place to raise a young girl, and the second-rate display of the city confirmed the worst.

A few scantily dressed people sat slumped on curbs eating sandwiches wrapped in crumpled foil. Dark alleyways separated one rundown building from another, and occasionally, the brick walls displayed colorful works of curvy spray-paint. Dumpsters and tin trashcans lined the ends of most blocks, and sometimes the metal caught the light of the rising sun and shimmered. A few clusters of black flies swarmed together at the lids and danced around the foul mixtures. Rachel grimaced. Surely there was more to Philly than these backstreets.

The cab reached a clearing and sat idly at a red light. Rachel glanced sideways at the surrounding cars. A rusted, junky pickup truck sat to the right. Thick clouds of exhaust spewed from the metal pipes that jutted from the back. The man driving the disgraceful vehicle had a cigarette wedged between two teeth, and he was drumming his fingers against the rim of the wheel. Shifting her eyes to left, Rachel noticed a shiny, red car. A plump, blond woman sat at the wheel, mouthing the words to a song. She had to stifle a laugh; Rachel realized that diversity was inevitable in cities, but this was rather comical.

The cabdriver slammed his foot on the gas, jerking Rachel forward with a thud. The cab continued to weave its way through the town, and when the conditions improved considerably, Rachel realized that they had arrived in the touristy sections of town. Clusters of people were already beginning to gather around the outsides of closed antique shops. A few business women shoved their way through the crowds wearing pumps and carrying leather bags that were dangerously close to sliding off their shoulders. Some lovers walked aimlessly around the streets, holding hands and sipping coffee.

A few minutes later, the cab screeched to a halt. "You're destination, Ma'am. That'll be forty-two dollars and twenty five cents," the cabdriver called to the back.

Rachel fiddled around with her purse for a moment before retrieving a fifty dollar bill. Rachel had her whole savings tucked away in there. All four hundred and twenty-eight dollars and sixty-two cents had been earned through various baby-sitting jobs and years of collected allowance. She stuck her hand through the plastic that divide. When the bill was lifted from her palm, Rachel retracted her arm gingerly and pulled the door handle open. She planted her heels on the rough pavement with two, clumsy _clunks_.

"Thank you, sir," she said softly before slamming the door shut behind her.

The man tipped his head in a gesture of thanks, and Rachel watched as the cab sped down the cluttered streets until it was indistinguishable amongst the other automobiles.

Rachel inhaled a gust of the stale city air and braced herself for the terminal. Clutching her suitcase closely at her side, Rachel proceeded to make her way through the automatic doors of the train station.

A whirlwind of people huddled around the corners and corridors of the terminal. It was diversity at its best: old, pudgy men with white beards, clinging to their canes…young, inner-city kids giggling and sipping sodas…busy men in suits balancing a briefcase or two and a thermos full of coffee…average families down in Philly on vacation.

Rachel brushed off the mobs of people and made her way to one of the main desks. She tapped her foot impatiently as she overheard the conversation one of the clerks was having with the rude woman ahead of her.

"Again, we apologize for your inconvenience, Ma'am, but there's nothing we can do."

The young clerk seemed desperate; his forehead was already sleek with sweat, and he was fiddling with is hands nervously. Rachel wagered this was his college job.

"I don't see why you can't just get me another ticket! Isn't there a way where you could just boot someone off?" the woman persisted.

"I'll check again, Ma'am, but I don't warrant that anything is going to change." The clerk typed some data into his computer and wiggled the mouse around a bit. He sighed once his search was completed. "The train to Chicago has no more seats available. I'm sorry, but—"

The woman scoffed at his response. "This is ridiculous! I need to speak with the manager of this establishment. This is inexcusable—"

Rachel had seen enough. "Excuse me, Miss," she said with a slight edge in her voice, "but this nice man here has obviously done all that is possible to make your travel more accommodating. It would be quite the pity if you were unable to extend the same courtesy."

The woman shot a hostile look at Rachel, but softened somewhat. "Yes, well…Come, Wendy dear," the woman said, taking the hand of the frightened child at her side. "We'll see if we can't get a flight." Soon the woman and her unfortunate daughter dissipated into the congested crowds of people.  
Rachel took a step forward and smiled meekly at the young man. "Hello." Setting her purse down on the counter, she continued, "I was wondering if I could book a passage for the 6:55 A.M. run to Washington D.C."

The man smiled back at her, and she was surprised to see that his cheeks colored slightly. Rachel was mystified. Was he afraid of a thirteen-year-old girl? Likely not. Working in a city terminal probably left plenty of opportunities to meet some strange people.

"Sure thing, Miss." He typed in a few words and brought his hand to the mouse and clicked. "Not a problem. Coach, I presume?"

"Please."

"Okay, cash or credit?"

"Cash."

"That'll be forty-eight dollars and twenty-two cents, Miss."

Rachel extended a fifty dollar bill and a quarter. "That should do it," she added wistfully.

The boy smiled and counted out two dollars and two pennies. "Here's your ticket." Rachel accepted the enveloped slip with her hand happily. "Gate number 32B. Make sure you've been through security first. They're pretty picky 'bout stuff like that."

Again, Rachel smiled graciously. "Thanks. Have a good day."

The boy nodded, and once again, his cheeks flushed.

Rachel suppressed a giggle as she made her way through the masses to the security check point. It was only then did she realize why the boy was blushing. Her disguise had merely proved to be rather effective. In his eyes, she wasn't a thirteen year-old runaway, rather she was a twenty-something year old woman who had been flirting with him.

As she made her way through the metal detectors, Rachel was suddenly struck with the gravity of the situation. She had made it all the way to Philadelphia without getting caught. She was off to meet her famous mother and FBI agent father. This was nuts! It was like a story straight from one of those reality shows on television.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the deep voice of the heavy set security guard handing Rachel her suitcase back. "Miss? Here's your suitcase and luggage pass. Present it to the conductor, and he'll let you pass."

Rachel nodded and took her belongings over by a bench. A glance at the clock told her that her train wouldn't leave for another twenty minutes or so. For awhile, she was content to sit and watch the clusters of people passing through. Soon she got bored of that, so she began to twiddle with her ring idly. It was a peculiar little thing: the way it was sculpted into little swirls. She felt a sort of connection with the piece of silver. She knew it was crazy, but Rachel felt as though it was protecting her in some unfathomable, crazy way.

Sighing, Rachel slipped out the Polaroid of her parents from her suitcase. It couldn't have baffled her more. They seemed so happy, so carefree. Suddenly she was sobered. _Why aren't I standing between them?_ she asked herself. _Why was I given up?_

She let the question linger as she blinked back her tears. It was going to be a long day.


	6. Renewed Hope

**A/N:** I am having way too much fun with this. It's kind of creepy. Tee-hee...Anywho, this chapter is just some deep thought and some necessary plot advancements. I thought about skipping ahead, but then I realized that would be just plain stupid. This chapter may not be the most exciting one, but next chapter [insert drum roll here showcases none other than the squint squad in all their shining glory. A big thank you to all who reviewed!!! You guys are awesome! Alrighty, enough of my babbling...On with the show!

**Disclaimer:** Rachel's mine, but that's the extent of it.

**-CHAPTER 6- **

Rachel sat still as a stone in her chair, her head slightly tilted away from the rest of the passengers on the bustling train. She kept her gaze fixed to the window. Blurry images flitted in and out of view like a bunch of fruit tossed carelessly into a blender. It was difficult to distinguish a tree from a blade of grass. Every time her eyes focused on one of the many shadowy outlines, the figure would quickly fade out of sight, never to be seen again.

She had come to find that her nerves had gnawed away at every last bit of sanity she had to her name. Logic told her that this was crazy. No, it was more than crazy. This was ridiculously idiotic. What was she thinking? That she could waltz into the Jeffersonian and announce that she was the daughter of world renowned forensic anthropologist Doctor Temperance Brennan? That she could knock on the FBI's door and claim that she was the daughter of Special Agent Seeley Booth?

"Excuse me, Miss." Rachel tore her gaze away from the scenery and redirected it at a blond attendant. The young woman's knuckles gripped tightly to a tiny cart piled high with complimentary refreshments. "May I interest you in something to eat or drink, perhaps?" Her voice was sickeningly sweet…and obviously forced. A pained smile graced her lips. A layer of shiny sweet shimmered from her forehead even though it was just past daybreak. Even her uniform—a navy blazer with a matching skirt—was wrinkly in places, as if it were thrown on in haste.

Rachel scanned the trays of steamy cups of tea and coffee, plates of scones and muffins, and prepackaged peanuts and pecans. Her stomach was growling, but the tight knots that tangled through her insides would surely prevent her from keeping down anything she chose to eat. Deciding it best not to provoke the poor woman, Rachel politely declined her offer and resumed her staring and thinking.

Minute after minute passed. The chatty voices of other passengers filled the train car. The rumbling and sputtering of the engine and the screechy, ear-splitting whines of steel on steel added to the commotion and cacophony. The train was definitely no place for deep reflection. Nevertheless, Rachel proceeded to analyze and pick apart her decision to leave. The more she thought about it, the more she regretted it. She knew that regret was irrational. Dwelling on the past stopped one from facing the future. But Rachel was only human. She only had so much stamina for rationale.

Frantically Rachel sought to find a distraction. She had already tried reading from her mother's first book. That was a bust. It had taken every fiber of her being to get past the first sentence without bawling her eyes out. She must have read the first three words at least twenty times.

Her thumb absently stroked the lifeless photograph of her mother on the back cover. The picture teased and taunted her to no end; the likeness to Rachel was remarkably similar. Her eyes went glassy involuntarily.

But before a tear could roll down her cheek, a distraction presented itself when a tiny voice disrupted her mental debates and daydreams. "A fan of the Temperance Brennan novels, I see?"

Rachel looked up to find a woman staring at her carefully with grayish, overcast eyes. Rachel had noticed her when she first took her seat—she was the lady sitting parallel to her. The woman was terribly tiny; her build was remarkably similar to that of a ten-year-old girl. Her skin was wrinkled and worn with age, and the creases around her mouth signaled that she had spent a great deal of time smiling. A mass of reddish curls sprung from her head. Some barrettes clipped back a few of them. A rather large handbag was slung carelessly over her right shoulder, and a few of the contents were sticking from the flaps.

Smiling slightly, Rachel replied, "Oh, yes. I just started them, actually."

"I wouldn't want to spoil your surprises then." She paused to open one of the flaps from her bag. With a grunt of satisfaction, she retrieved a copy of the latest novel in the series and waved it in her hand. "I'm halfway through it. Can't get enough of them, it would seem."

"Really?" Rachel was flattered. _I guess Mom really _is_ famous._

"Oh yes!" the woman insisted. "Doctor Brennan really is something! So vivid…Makes me look at my life differently, I guess." She paused for a moment. With a sigh, she stuck out her hand purposefully. "Where are my manners? My name is Tiffany Lewis. It's a pleasure."

Out of courtesy, Rachel extended her own hand and shook Tiffany's slowly. "I'm—Lynn…Smith." Rachel smiled to herself; she had succeeded in keeping her identity a secret.

"Good to meet you. Headed to D.C.?" Tiffany asked before lifting the rim of her teacup to her thin lips.

Rachel nodded. "To visit family. You?"

"It's my brother, actually. He's an aspiring politician just out of college. The kid's got gumption, I'll give him that, but sometimes he doesn't think things through. He headed down here a month ago without any plan to speak of. Now I'm here to clean up _his_ mess." Tiffany smiled broadly as she tossed a red curl off her shoulder. "Not that I mind, of course. I just wish he was more careful."

"That's nice."

_Smooth, real smooth, Rach. C'mon, focus! You've got a brain. Now use it, damn it! You know full well that there are better adjectives in the dictionary than the word nice,_ she chastised herself.

Tiffany grinned knowingly and clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "Ah…Nerves, I see?" At the bemused expression plastered to Rachel's face, she elaborated and softened her voice a notch. "What's on your mind, dear? I've dealt with three kids—three girls, no less. Lay it on me. Can't be worse than the things I've seen."

Rachel was hesitant. Her brows ruffled in deep confusion, and she fiddled with her fingers nervously. This woman was a complete stranger. But it was so tempting…Could she divulge her issues, her problems, her fears? Was it safe to spill her life story with this Tiffany woman? Likely not. After a few more moments of mulling things over, Rachel decided to—adjust—her story. It wouldn't be wise to tell her every last detail, but would it hurt to tell her some?

"I grew up in the suburbs of Philly," Rachel began tentatively. At the woman's nod of encouragement, she continued. "I never really saw my parents that much. All I ever had were some meager photographs and bits and pieces of information."

That wasn't an outright lie. It was all truth. Rachel _did_ grow up in the suburbs of Philly. Rachel _hadn't_ seen her parents much. All she had was a pile of photographs and biographies courtesy of the Internet. She wasn't lying. She was omitting.

"I wanted—more, you know? The feeling that I was missing something, something big, something huge, was awfully strong…and intoxicating. Then I, well, I acted on an impulse. I'm not sure if that was wise." She paused to chuckle. "Heck, I know it wasn't wise, but at the time, I didn't care. And I still don't."

Tiffany nodded understandingly. "Sometimes, dear, we have to look at the bigger picture. Think of it like this: you may regret this decision of yours right now, but fast-forward a bit. Will you regret it then? Do you feel like what you did was for the best? Sure, at the moment, it may have seemed…impulsive, impetuous, imperfect, but do you believe that the consequences of your actions, whether they be good or bad, will have a positive or negative effect on your life?"

Rachel looked the woman straight in the eye. _Compassion…Concern…Sympathy._ The words ran through Rachel's mind. That's what she saw. The woman seemed wholly compassionate. She appeared to be concerned for Rachel's wellbeing. Tiffany did sympathize. Never had Rachel seen such a thing in all her years. Here she was, a complete stranger, handing out the best advice Rachel had ever heard.

For a few minutes, she contemplated the angle of Tiffany's thinking. It made perfect sense. At thirteen, running off to Washington D.C. without parental consent was way out of line, not to mention life threatening. But what about a year from now? Wouldn't she be happy to have her real parents at her side? Though Rachel resented that she was so low as to resort to the use of psychology, she had to admit it was working. It really was.

"Once you've hit rock bottom, all that's left is up, Lynn," Tiffany reminded gently.

A long pause followed.

"Positive then, I guess. This is good for me. Thank you, Tiffany. For that. Whatever the heck it was."

Tiffany's eyes twinkled. "You're very welcome, my dear. Very welcome."

* * *

The rain was coming down hard and fast. The streets were shiny with smooth, slippery droplets. The clouds gathered in packs, threatening to dump more and more buckets of water down on the streets of Washington D.C. The _pitter patter_-ing of the drops fell in a rhythmic pattern. Umbrellas hooded the sidewalks in a smorgasbord of colors, bringing life to the dull streets.

The stale stench of tobacco lingered in the cab. Crusted bubblegum stuck to the felt of the ceiling. Mud and coffee stained the coarse carpeting. A few wrinkled magazines stuck from the pouches of the front seats. The windows had frosted over with a thin, moist layer of silver. Thumbprints rubbed to the filthy glass revived themselves.

"You said Jeffersonian, Miss?" the cab driver called from the opening in the plastic divider. His breath was foul, and his voice was hoarse. The man wore a lopsided baseball cap on his head. A few gray wisps stuck from the elastic band at the bottom. His reddish t-shirt clung to his rounded belly.

"Yes, please," Rachel replied weakly, her voice shaking and her hands trembling.

To say she was nervous would be an understatement of immense proportions. Her heart rattled against her ribs. She tried to focus on the kind words of Tiffany. _Once you've hit rock bottom, all that's left is up…Once you've hit rock bottom, all that's left is up…But what if I haven't hit rock bottom? What if there's still a little ways down to go?_

"The weather's been pretty crappy now a day. I wouldn't pay it any mid, though. S'posed to clear up by ta'morrow."

Rachel nodded mutely. She caught the man's gruff, gray eyes from the rearview mirror. They seemed tired, drained…_Just like me,_ she thought ruefully.

The remainder of the ride was spent in an awkward silence. What would have been a ten minute drive lasted a good half hour. The traffic was bumper to bumper, and the rain only made it worse.

Out of boredom, Rachel pressed her fingers to the cool glass of the window, staring at her own grim reflection. Her eyes were sunken and drawn, both obvious signs of stress. The fire that kept the sapphire irises glowing had been extinguished. Her face has paled with exhaustion and worry. And as mush as it pained her to admit, she knew she was hanging from a thin string; the only thing that was keeping her going was hope, and maybe it wasn't even hope—maybe it was just false hope.

The taxi jerked to an abrupt stop. "Ten dollars and twenty two cents, Miss," the man called.

Rachel placed an old, withered ten dollar bill and five ones into the man's leathery outstretched hand, muttering a barely coherent thank you under her breath. She swung the heavy door open. With a quick flick, the black umbrella she had purchased after exiting the train terminal was at ready. Rachel slammed the door shut and made her way through the masses of people. She soon found that this was no easy feat; the crowds only grew denser as she wormed her way closer to the museum entrance.

_Praise be for umbrellas,_ she thought wryly. _I'll have to Google the genius who came up with the bright idea once I get out of this mess._ Then the lump in her throat thickened. _If I ever get out, that is…_

Once safely inside the museum doors, she closed the umbrella and shook off the excess water in a hurry, leaving a slippery puddle on the tiled floor. The security gates were intimidating to say the least. Heavy metal machines stood proudly in a row like toy soldiers. A few heavy set men dressed in black garnished with hints of silver perused the area, swinging bunches of keys on only one of their fingers with skill.

With a heavy heart, she remembered she carried a highly suspicious leather suitcase between her numb fingers. Obviously she had nothing to hide, but the sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach told her the security guards wouldn't be so quick to understand.

"Your bag, Ma'am?"

Rachel frowned at the sight of a rather ugly man gesturing to the luggage she clutched tightly in her hand. Simply unwilling to release her viselike grip on the worn strap, she struggled to come up with a believable tale. "The hotel, you see, won't let me check in till—" she paused to steal a glance at the clock on the other side of the room, "—eleven o'clock, and it's only a bit after nine. I had no place for my belongings, you understand, so I had no choice but to take the whole kit and caboodle along with me."

The man raised his brows doubtfully. "Standard procedure, Ma'am. It just needs to go through the metal detector, is all." With his muscular arms, he pried the bag from Rachel's reluctant hands and sent it through the conveyer belt. After pressing a few select buttons, he grunted and said, "All yours, Ma'am."

She shuffled her way through one of the metal detectors lined up in rows. After a nimble nod of the head, she welcomed the bag back in her arms eagerly. The museum was her oyster now, free for the taking.

A kiosk in the center of the plaza caught her attention. There were several dusty, plastic shelves stuffed with maps. Her heels echoed against the tiles. She extended her shaky fingers to retrieve one of the maps. She quickly undid the shiny folds and sighed when her suspicions were confirmed. An area in the north wing of the museum was colored in red ink. In bold, black lettering, it read, "**JEFFERSONIAN INSTITUTE MEDICO-LEGAL LAB; RESTRICTED AREA; PRIVELEDGED ACCESS ONLY.**"

Before she tackled that hurdle, Rachel decided to make her way to the nearest ladies room. There were a few more loose ends she had to tie before taking the plunge and meeting her mother. After securely locking herself in the handicap stall, she unzipped her suitcase and pulled out a fresh outfit. If she showed up in her mother's office wearing her dress suit, she'd hardly pass as a thirteen-year-old girl, much less her daughter. Once satisfied with her denim skirt and pink sweater, she brought a washcloth to one of the sinks. The makeup would have to go, too.

The hair was different project altogether. She did her best to unpin her curls; she even went through the trouble to dampen them. With her brush, she tied the auburn locks back in a loose ponytail. A few stray tendrils hung limply on her neck.

_Much better,_ she congratulated herself. _Now…To find Angela._

After much thoughtful consideration, Rachel thought it best to find Angela before Temperance or Seeley. She'd be willing to bet that Angela, as her mother's best friend, would arm Rachel with facts, a luxury she sorely lacked. The pictures and the kindly description in the interview portrayed Angela to be a dependable, welcoming woman, not one to resent Rachel's burning curiosity.

With a deep breath, Rachel barreled her way out of the restroom, determined to find her way to the north wing. In not ten minutes, she had passed through the maze of corridors that plagued the Jeffersonian.

A set of transparent doors was the only thing keeping Rachel from her mother. Etched in white, the door read, "_**Jeffersonian Institute Medico-Legal Lab, Front Lobby."**_ At a closer look, a rather disagreeable woman sat at a desk in the oval shaped room.

Her heart pounded. Her palms were clammy. Her steps were hesitant. Rachel numbly pushed the door open. _It's now or never,_ she decided. With that thought in mind, she made her way to the front desk to make her presence known.


	7. At Long Last

**A/N:** And now the moment we've all been waiting for! Thanks for the reviews, guys.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**-CHAPTER 7-**

"Can I help you, Miss?" Rachel was startled to hear the gruff voice of a woman sitting at a desk.

The first thing that Rachel noticed about the woman was her unruly hair: the grayish-black wisps flew this way and that. She wore a coarse, beige suit with five square buttons that closed over a hideously tacky red shirt. Her excessive amounts of makeup didn't do much to conceal her old, warn face. If anything, it only made those features more pronounced.

The woman locked her brown eyes with Rachel's, probably in a futile attempt to intimidate her. Much to the woman's surprise, Rachel stared right back.

Gathering up her courage, Rachel answered the receptionist's question with vehemence. "I'm looking for a Mrs. Angela Montenegro-Hodgins. I'm told she works here as a forensic artist."

"You've been told a lot then, haven't you?" the woman retorted, falsely trying to make herself appear busy by flipping through a bunch of papers. "May I ask who's looking?"

Rachel squared her shoulders and approached the woman at her desk. "You can tell her that there's a Rachel Brennan who wishes to speak with her. It's of high priority, I assure you."

"She may be very busy; I'm not entirely sure that she'll be available—"

Rachel cut her off abruptly. "Then she'll make time. Of that, I am certain."

The woman gave her a sour look before surrendering. She dialed a few buttons on her phone with her boney fingers. "Yes…This is Rhonda Philips from the main lobby…Fine, thank you…I have a young girl here…Rachel Brennan, can't be more than fifteen…No, she's insistent upon speaking with Angela Montenegro-Hodgins…Yes, that would be fine."

The woman smiled cheekily and said to Rachel, "They're transferring me to her right now."

Rachel could only nod. She could feel her chest slowly tighten. She was so close!

Rhonda continued on with her discussion on the phone. "Yes, Mrs. Montenegro-Hodgins?…Rhonda…Yes, the receptionist…Um, there's a girl here who wishes to speak with you…Says it's urgent…Name?...Rachel Brennan." A long pause followed. "Yes, I'm certain that's her name…Are you alright? Mrs. Hodgins? Are you alright? Oh, good…I'll be sure to tell her…Yes, bye now."

Rhonda slammed the phone back on the receiver and scribbled something on a sheet of paper. Finally she looked up and said, "Mrs. Montenegro-Hodgins should be down momentarily. Have a seat while you wait, please."

Rachel smiled weakly and found the nearest chair with her wobbly legs.

_Oh, dear Lord! What am I doing here? This…oh dear God! This is nuts! Have I completely lost my mind? Stop it! You can't lose a mind…you can go crazy, but you can't physically lose a mind…it's hyperbole…and figurative language…and now you're rambling…to yourself. Shut up already, will you? You're here. What's done is done. There's no going back now. _

Rachel shook herself free of her scattered thoughts. Now that she was here, things just seemed all the more real. It would have been different had it not been kept secret. She was bound to find out eventually, and eventually was today for Rachel. Wouldn't it have just been easier to tell her rather than to go through all of this trouble?

Looking for a distraction, Rachel glanced around the waiting room nervously from her own seat. It was spacious; she had counted sixteen identical overstuffed chairs lined up in equal rows, four glass side tables piled high with old, crumpled magazines, and nineteen portraits of various types of fruit and dogs.

The room was awkwardly shaped: its walls curved together in circle. The mahogany desk in which Rhonda was sitting at stood at the head of the ring, commanding attention with its height and shiny finishing. The single skylight hovering above the room cast streams of bright light against the walls, causing the golden paint to glitter.

Rachel sunk her flip-flops into the velvety carpeting. The floors had likely been recently vacuumed and shampooed; the thick strands of crimson fabric stood straight, and footprints left their imprints in the strings.

The room smelled heavily of cheap perfume. Rachel wagered that it belonged to Rhonda. The stench of it climbed up her nostrils, and soon, she felt nauseas. She tried to rationalize that it was just the effects of the perfume that was making her light-headed, nothing more, but she secretly was simply unwilling to admit to herself that she was in way over her head. This was far too much for any thirteen-year-old to handle, regardless of how mature she might be.

Suddenly, the elevator doors opened with a chirpy _ding_, and out came a woman wearing high heels. Her curly, black locks of hair rested lightly on her shoulders. A flicker of fear flashed through the woman's eyes, and when they found their way to Rachel, they widened with sheer, unadulterated panic.

Rachel stayed frozen in her seat. What was she supposed to do now? Angela obviously didn't know what to do, either, for she just stayed with her feet planted firmly in one place. Suddenly tears began rushing freely down Angela's pale face.

"Look at you…" she hiccupped, "…all grown up and whatnot. Rachel…Oh, I haven't seen you in…in…thirteen years!"

Before it even registered with Rachel, Angela managed to make her feet move, and soon she was barreling through the lobby, arms outstretched. She managed to even knock down a plaster statue of an ugly bird with her clumsiness. Ignoring the fallen parrot, she embraced the frightened girl in her chair, nearly choking Rachel in the process.

Angela was now at the point of full blown bawling. "You're so gorgeous…Just like your mother! I…Wait till your father…Oh dear God…Your father…Booth! Oh, screw it…Just look at you!"

Slowly, Rachel retracted from Angela's firm hold on her shoulders. "Hello, you must be Angela, right?"

Hastily Angela brought up a finger to wipe a tear from her eye. "Yeah. Guilty as charged." After another exaggerated sniffle, a rush of worry seemed to crash down on Angela's face. "Wait—w-where are your p-parents?"

Rachel hung her head down and kept her eyes fixed on the carpeting. She knew that it would come up eventually, but she hadn't expected it to be so soon. This was one of the many complications that would inevitably ensue before all was said and done.

Knowing that only the truth would do, Rachel spoke barely above a whisper, "They…they're at home. In Camden, a suburb of Philly."

"So that's where you ended up?" Angela fidgeted with her purse, and with a grunt of triumph, she pulled out a crinkly tissue and dabbed her eyes with it. She chuckled softly. "You know, I had always wondered about you. What you'd turn out to be, I mean. Your mother didn't want me to pry, and as her friend, I knew it was my duty to respect that. Still…I couldn't help but to wonder, you know? I mean, you were gone in an instant. All I remember is this…this innocent baby with dark, fuzzy hair and angelic blue eyes. I didn't even get the chance t-to be all of things I wanted to be for you."

Rachel couldn't help but to cast Angela a confused look. As usual, things weren't adding up. She came here to find answers, not more questions.

Before Rachel could open her mouth, Angela beat her to it. "Do they know you're here? Your parents, I mean?" she asked.

With a heavy heart, Rachel shook her head no.

Much to Rachel's surprise, Angela laughed softly. "Yeah, it figures. Just like your mom. Always breaking the rules." She paused before bringing herself to her next thought. "You shouldn't be here, though. Don't get me wrong, I'm…obviously ecstatic, but they must be worried sick. I can't imagine the pain I'd feel if my Lissie ever went missing."

Rachel asked what seemed to be a safe question. "Who's Lissie?"

Angela smiled fondly. "Alyssa Hodgins, my daughter. Lissie's eight, and the little brat is already driving us all up a wall. You'd like her though. Rambunctious and feisty—just like her mother, I suppose."

Rachel grinned back. For the first time in awhile, she felt safe—some may even say content. "My mother breaks rules?" That comment had struck a chord with Rachel, and knowing that there was a story, maybe even more than one, behind it, she felt compelled to ask.

Angela laughed again, and upon finding it to be contagious, Rachel was soon giggling along side of her. The two had even earned a rather disagreeable glare from Rhonda, who was busy sweeping the dusty remnants of the parrot's wing.

"Ah, yes. She simply feels that the rules just don't apply to her. Booth keeps her grounded, though. He always has—" Suddenly Angela stopped short.

"Has what?" The question hung in the air for a moment

"Nothing, Sweetie," Angela replied hastily. Then, as an after thought, she said, "Look, the lobby is no place for this. How's about you and me go and mull this over somewhere more fitting…say the mall?"

Rachel was utterly mystified. "But…don't you have work? And what about my parents? The ones in Philly, I mean. We can't just get up and leave. Right?"

Her fears were momentarily forgotten when Angela swatted her hand in a gesture to ward off any worries. "With time you'll come to realize, Sweetie, that employees here at the Jeffersonian have infinite connections. Your father can be very persuasive, I'll have you know. I'll see to it that your parents know who you're with.

"Come on." Angela took Rachel's hand and led her to the elevator. "Unfortunately, your mother—come to think of it, my husband, too—would kill me if I didn't come up to tell them what we're up to. They'd call in the bomb squad or something. Don't want that, do we? I'll be five minutes tops, promise."

Rachel was thoroughly bemused. "Wait…won't she see me?"

Angela raised her left brow in equal confusion. "Who, Sweetie?"

"My mom!"

Angela curled her lips into a sympathetic smile. "Yeah…I suppose you're right…I'm just so happy! I was like this when I found out I was having Lissie, too. I just lost myself in the bliss of it all, you know?" She stopped to sigh. "You're my niece named…Emma, m'kay? If anyone asks, you're visiting here for the week, alright, Emma?"

Her words of comfort did nothing to solace Rachel; she was still trembling. _What about me? I'll be seeing Mom! Mommy…Mommy Dearest—Doctor Mommy Dearest, really. I can't handle that! No—not yet! And what about those questions you had, Missy? Huh? How come you didn't ask 'bout those?_ Shoving her frets aside, she put on a fearless façade and mustered a somewhat pained smile. "Alright."

After a few moments of an awkward silence, Angela took "Emma's" hand and smiled. "I know you have questions. Lots of 'em. I wager you wouldn't be here if you didn't. I have a few myself. We'll find our answers as a team, okay, Rachel?"

Rachel grinned back. "That's Emma to you, Auntie Ange."

Instead of smiling or even giggling at the half-joke, Angela began to bawl all over again. Rachel was immediately mystified. Panic numbed her muddled thoughts. _Oh dear God, now what have you done? Maybe she doesn't like the name Ange. Mental note: Don't call Angela "Ange," or "Auntie Ange." Ugh…get it together, Rachel! This should be easy! _

"I'm sorry," Rachel sputtered. "I—I won't call you that anymore. People tell me that I never know what to say to people. I guess they're right." She hadn't paused long enough to breath to realize she was talking a mile a minute. "I mean, I'm always putting people off, insulting them, degrading them, sometimes to the point where I make them cry. It's not intentional. Really, I'm sorry, Angela."

Between her muffled sobs, Angela managed to say, "No…No, that's not it. You are perfect. You're perfect beyond anything I could've ever imagined. I'm just…God, you're really here aren't you? You're really his daughter!" She squeezed Rachel's hand tighter. After a sniffle or two, she continued. "That smile…It's just like his. You're so beautiful. You're more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. I bet you're smart, too. How many boyfriends have you had? Booth wouldn't approve of any of them, just for the record—"

The conversation came to an abrupt halt when the elevator doors inched open, revealing the silver glazed room that was the lab. Rachel could barely make complete thoughts. The lab…it was so vast! The sunlight streamed through the windows that melded together as the roof. Sterling silver lined the walls in the form of anything from tables to scalpels. She smiled weakly as Angela coaxed her over to the platform.

"No, the victim died of a gunshot wound to the distal radius, not from a gunshot wound to the ischium. The bullet to the ischium already shows remodeling, so the victim was probably a soldier or in a pretty ugly scuffle. See the callusing? And the hairline fractures found on the distil phalanges are postmortem, so the victim's hand was crushed after he or she was dead. There isn't evidence of blood flow. See?"

"Yes, I see, Dr. Brennan."

Rachel studied the pair on the platform with wide eyes. There was her mother, babbling on about something in scientific jargon. She was breathtakingly beautiful. Well, to Rachel anyway. Even if her biological mother was old and crippled, Rachel's eyes would have thought her to be beautiful.

There was another girl with blond curls framing a pretty, blue-eyed face. Her features were slight, though somewhat hidden underneath the blue lab coat. Rachel wagered that the girl couldn't have been older than twenty. She didn't recall reading about this woman.

"Dr. Brennan?" Rachel smiled when she saw Doctor Zachary Addy step onto the platform, carrying some x-rays in hand. "I examined those x-rays you asked me to. I agree. Postmortem."

Angela interrupted the scientists with a loud, "_Ahem!_" Rachel assumed that they were far too engrossed in their work to pay any mind to the two women standing silently on the platform, or that they had noticed and simply didn't care to acknowledge their presence.

Rachel's heart skipped a beat at the low voice that undoubtedly belonged to her mother. "What is it, Ange?"

"Everyone, this is my niece Emma. Emma, this is Dr. Brennan, Dr. Addy, and Miss Sara Greene, Dr. Brennan's grad student. Emma will be staying with me for the week, and it would do you all good to at least be civil. That means best behavior." She paused momentarily as if a new thought had occurred to her. "Zach, it's best you just not speak to her."

He looked up from his pile of bones and squinted at Rachel. His eyes seemed to glaze over, and for a moment, he was perfectly still. In response to the strange behavior, Rachel said, "Hi. I'm Emma."

Instead of extending a normal, kind pleasantry, Zach resumed his work. While polishing a femur, he said quietly, "I'd speak directly, but I'm following the instruction. Angela, tell Emma that she's standing too close to the biohazard waste basket. Tell her to step away immediately."

Rachel knitted her brows together in deep confusion. Glancing at Angela for help, she stepped away, trying desperately to ignore the rush of defeat and rejection that numbed her body.

"Zach! I said best behavior! Best behavior! Which part of that didn't you understand?" Angela lashed out.

Before he could come up with an appropriate response, a new voice echoed through the glassy walls of the lab. "Bones! Where the hell are you? New body, here. Chop, chop!" Two abrupt claps of the hand accompanied the words, "Chop, chop."

Rachel froze. She lifted her head lightly, tilting it so as to see the source of the voice. He had said "Bones." He had clearly, without a doubt, uttered the word "Bones," in reference to the woman standing on the platform. Only one person called her mother Bones, and the sickening feeling spreading through her stomach reminded her of the identity of that person. That person was none other than her father, Special Agent Seeley Booth.

Slowly, almost robotically, she moved her head in rhythm with the man's steps. As he trotted up the steps, his face seemed to contort in confusion.

Making his way closer to the center of the platform beside Rachel's mother, he said to nobody in particular, "This a new squint?" He gestured absently to Rachel.

And all she could do was stand there, stunned, her face growing paler and paler by the second.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Never thought I'd be able to pull off a cliffhanger. Hmm...Anywho, I hope that this sufficed. This chapter was by far the most difficult one to write. Angela is a delicate character; I hope I didn't butcher her. Rachel's easy to write about because she's my character, one that I made up. But the squints throw me for a loop sometimes...Well, if you can, feel free to drop a review!

-Susan :o)


	8. A Web of Confusion

**A/N:** Well, here you have it--the next chapter. (Cue ominous music.) I'll be perfectly honest: this chapter caused me quite the struggle for a number of reasons. One: I had to juggle meeting all of the squints at once, Booth & Brennan included. Cam's not here in the story just yet. She will be, but fitting her into it, as well, was hard. Two: Trying to throw Rachel's feelings into the mess was difficult. I can only imagine what the poor girl must be feeling. Three: Writers' Block. 'Nuff said. Thanks for all of my fabulous reviews!!!

**Note To Erin (I would have replied to it seperately, but I couldn't because it was anonymous):** I appreciate your honesty! Yes, it's true that Rachel resembles her mother, but we all know how Brennan gets when she's in work mode. I can't divulge all of my secrets just yet--I have a plan for the plot. :o) Thanks for reading.

**Disclaimer:** Alas, it's still not mine.

**_-CHAPTER 8-_**

Fear. By all rights, fear is an emotion—a complicated, pesky emotion. That's why fear was a difficult concept for Rachel to grasp. Fear is irrational. Being afraid, she knew, wouldn't benefit anyone, especially herself, as it's just a silly feeling. She could easily understand that there are chemical responses to high stress situations: increased heart rate…clammy hands…shaky voice. Those are all perfectly reasonable reactions to stimuli. Fear, the actual emotion, however, can't be explained by science. And that's what got Rachel in a tizzy.

She gazed into the eyes of her estranged father. That day, when blue met brown, there was a moment. A moment when Rachel wholly understood the meaning of fear. A moment when a whirlwind of emotions—dread, panic, apprehension, doubt, uncertainty, abandonment, depression—all came to life. A moment when she wanted nothing more than to crawl under a rock and be left to wallow in her tears. But even when her eyes went glassy, she refused to look away. She didn't want to look away. What if he were to vanish before her very eyes? How would she be able to handle that?

_That's silly; he's not going to disappear._

And then there was his question, still hanging in the air. It was so casual, so innocent. _This a new a squint?_ The bothersome voice lurking in her mind was persistent, constantly repeating those very words. It never left her so much as a moment's peace. The incessant echoes pounded through her head, leaving the dull beginnings of a migraine. Rachel tried to form words, but her attempts fell flat. Her mouth just opened and closed a few times like a fish's puckered lips facing the kiss of death.

"No, Booth," Angela intervened. Rachel sighed as relief washed over her. "This is Emma, my niece." Her voice was surprisingly calm; not a hint of distress was evident. "Emma, meet Seeley Booth, the liaison for the Jeffersonian."

"Aw, come on, Ange. Don't sell me short." He stuck out a hand for Rachel to shake. "It's _Special Agent_ Seeley Booth. I'm FBI." He grinned cheekily, flashing only hints of white, and Rachel nearly melted as she returned the gesture. "How old are you, Emma?"

She still didn't trust her voice, but when she glanced at Angela for help, she only received a nod of encouragement in return. "Th-Thirteen," she mustered, just barely above a whisper. "But I'll be fourteen next month."

Seeley nodded. "Call me Booth." His tone was still casual. Nothing clicked. Not even of flicker of understanding or hurt was detectible in his eyes.

A rush of numbing disappointment fell over Rachel. She had secretly hoped that he would recognize her right away, and then everything could go back to normal. But now the notion seemed silly. Nothing would ever go back to normal. Ever.

"I didn't know you had a sibling, Ange," Booth said.

"I have a sister. Name's Annie. You'll have to meet her sometime."

The rest of their conversation was lost to Rachel. Instead, she immersed herself observing the inner-workings of her mother's lab. Sara Greene was brushing what was presumably debris off a bone; her delicate fingers rested lightly on the object of her ministrations. She was clearly absorbed in her work. Her eyes never left the ivory rod for more than a mere second.

Zach—that rude, lanky man—was still clutching a pile of x-rays in his left hand. His focus darted from the ongoing conversation, her mother, and Sara interchangeably. A frown graced his tired features. Small, gray circles settled under his eyes. He probably hadn't gotten a good night's rest in days.

Her eyes carefully avoided the slight figure hunched over a pile of bones in the corner. She didn't want to look at her, really. Rachel already endured the pain of seeing her father. That was difficult enough. She wasn't stable. Lingering too long on her mother would push her overboard.

Then a distraction presented itself without warning: "Mommy!"

Simultaneously, everyone cocked their heads towards the entrance to of the Jeffersonian. A little girl with a mound of black curls jogged closer to the platform. A doll's limb hung hap hazardously from the child's hand, bobbing along in rhythm with her steps. Decked out in a pink jumper and matching buckle shoes, she trotted behind a short man clad in a white t-shirt and jeans.

"There's my Lissie," Angela said in way of greeting.

Lissie bounded towards her mother with outstretched arms. With a squeal of glee, Lissie's feet dangled off the floor as her mother captured her in a warm hug. Her black locks toppled over her shoulders in messy braid, and her stockings had a fraying whole near the ankle.

"Did you have fun with Dad today?" she asked, returning the child back to the ground.

"Yeah, I guess. He was too busy to play, though. Said something about a—I don't really know," Lissie said matter-of-factly. "He had Winnie watch me."

Angela placed her hands on her hips and cocked her head towards the curly haired man. "Jack, how many times do I have to tell you to put down that damned dissertation of yours to spend some time with your daughter? Winnie gets paid to clean, not lug around an eight-year-old girl all day. I know it's important, but—"

Lissie cut her off mind rant, wagging her finger at her mother. "Mom, you said a bad word! Dad told me to never, _ever_ say that word! How could you?"

Rachel had to suppress a giggle. She assumed that the man getting the stern talking to was Dr. Jack Hodgins—Angela's poor husband. Rachel watched in amusement as Angela tried to explain herself to Lissie.

"Well, Alyssa, you see…Sometimes," Angela stuttered, "adults have to—vent anger. That was just my way of—venting anger."

Lissie raised her eyebrows, a bemused expression plastered to her pretty face. "Kinda like Daddy when he vents his anger by snapping that rubber band-y-thingy he keeps on his wrist?"

Angela's eyes narrowed to slits. "Yes, honey," she said stiffly. "Just like Daddy does."

Lissie shrugged her shoulders. "Okey-doke-y." That said, Lissie pranced over to one of the chairs with wheels. With gusto only an eight-year-old could possess, she propped her elbows on the cushion and hoisted her feet on the chair. Quite skillfully, she adjusted her rump till she was hanging dangerously close to the edge. In one swift motion, she rested her pointed toe ever so lightly on the tiled floor and spun herself round and round in circles, followed by a litany of giggles.

When she was certain that her daughter was wholly absorbed in her game, Angela squared her shoulders and turned to face her husband. "I thought that we had agreed that you were supposed to quit that nasty habit of yours!"

He feigned innocence. "I did—I am. Really!"

Angela just scoffed in reply.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, the man changed the subject to something supposedly safer. "Who do we have here?" Jack gestured to Rachel, still standing to the side, watching and waiting.

Rachel smiled softly, still thoroughly amused. "I'm Emma, Ange's niece. I suppose that would make you my uncle. It's a pleasure."

"Call me Hodgins, please." He raised his eyebrows at Angela, any hints of anger lost. "Annie has a daughter?"

Angela shrugged her shoulders. "Of course."

"And you're telling me this just now?"

"It never came up in conversation," Angela said, exasperation laced in her tone. Not all of her anger had subsided.

Rachel hoped that Hodgins would overlook the ambiguity of Ange's answers. If this were to work, things would have to be consistent. One slip of the tongue could foil the whole thing. Eventually the truth would surface. Eventually.

"Well, if everything's all set here, Emma and I have some catching up to do. Don't we, Sweetie?" Angela smiled a tad overenthusiastically and adjusted the straps of her pocketbook. "Jack, watch Lissie, will you? No dissertation. If you _must_ work, call Martha from paleontology or something to watch her. Lissie loves Martha."

Rachel smiled nervously when Hodgins nodded a brief goodbye. Sara grinned sheepishly, trying to avoid too much eye contact. Rachel figured she was a shy one. Zach didn't waver from his work; something must have been awfully interesting in that pile of x-rays of his.

Rachel let herself steal one last glance at her mother. The slight figure worked diligently over the pile of bones. Her eyes were focused. Distraction didn't seem to exist. Afraid that grief would get the best of her, Rachel turned away, only to find herself face to face with Booth—her father.

"I'm sure I'll see you soon, Emma. Pleasure to meet you. Don't let Ange talk you to death, 'kay?" He flashed her another cheeky smile and made his way over to the skeleton.

"The pleasure is mine," Rachel whispered. "The pleasure is all mine."

Rachel stood still in a daze. That was her father. Her father. _Does he even know I exist? Does he even care that I exist? Does _anyone_ care I exist? I'm not Emma! I'm Rachel—Rachel Something-Or-An-Other. What's my last name? I don't even know my last name! It was Wood. But I'm not a Wood. I'm a Booth. I'm Rachel Booth. Can't he see that? Can't any of them see that?_

She barely noticed the light hand resting on her shoulder. "Give it time, Rachel. Just give it time."

With a sober nod, Rachel walked out of the Jeffersonian and into the numb cold and wet rain, desperately clutching the solace that Ange's hand provided. A flimsy black umbrella deflected the droplets of rain. Maybe lunch with Angela was exactly what she needed.

* * *

**_Feel free to drop a review :o)_**


	9. Some Answers

**A/N:** So, yet again, another chapter...Thanks for all of your reviews!!! You guys really are awesome! Beyond awesome, really. So, yeah. Thanks.

**Disclaimer:** Still not mine. I just borrow them for my own amusement. I suppose I do have ownership over Rachel, though. She's my own little creation.

_**-CHAPTER 9: Some Answers-**_

The car ride past in absolute silence. Rachel didn't mind it, though. It was probably better that way. Talking could wait till later. Rachel stole the occasional glance at the woman driving the car. Angela was a pretty woman, she decided. Her frame was frail, and faint lines curved around her bright red lips, indications that she had spent her life smiling. _Good_,Rachel thought. A woman as kind as Angela deserved to smile. A few white roots sprouted from her scalp, but she obviously took the time to restore her natural black color using dye. With a heavy heart, Rachel noticed that every now and again, Angela swiped at her eyes, quickly erasing any tears.

_Perhaps silence is easier,_ Rachel mused. _It's been thirteen years, for god's sake. It'll take more than a ten minute car ride to tell thirteen year's worth of stuff. Especially considering the circumstances…_

Rachel had always thought of tears as signs of weakness and vulnerability. She didn't cry often, but as of late, it seemed to become a ritual habit. Tearless bouts reserved themselves for happier, less complicated times. Before her life had been turned upside down. Before her parents were F.B.I. agents and doctors.

Even the walk to the restaurant was spent without any pointless chatter. The waiter brought them their drinks: a steamy cup of coffee and a large cherry coke. Still, nothing but silence. Rachel watched as Angela peeled the tops off a few plastic milk containers and then poured the creamy concoction into the dark liquid. She stirred with her stained spoon, swishing the cloudy mixture until it was a light brown. Rachel sipped her coke, trying to think of something to break the silence. Nothing.

Luckily she didn't have to. "It was hard, Rachel."

Rachel looked up from the ice cubes she had been fiddling with. Hard? What was that supposed to mean? After a few more moments of that deafening silence, she manned up and murmured, "What was hard?"

After taking another prolonged sip of coffee, Angela inhaled deeply. "Your mother, Rachel. The situation we were all in. She's a strong, strong woman. Stubborn as all hell, but strong. Seeing her that weak…" Her voice trailed off, but after a sniffle, she found it again. "I should probably start from the beginning."

"The beginning sounds good," Rachel whispered.

Angela nodded, yet her resolve weakened when she parted her lips. Her chin quivered, a last ditch attempt to thwart a heart wrenching sob. The poor woman was a wreck. So haggard and anxious. Rachel gnawed on her lip. It was her fault. All of this, she decided, was her doing.

With a tight smile, Angela began to speak. "As you already know, you're mother is a forensic anthropologist working at the Jeffersonian. She specializes in identifying human remains in partnership with the F.B.I., which is where your father comes into the picture." She stopped momentarily to swallow another sip of that coffee. Rachel had always seen coffee to be the equivalent of cigarettes; they both calmed the nerves. "Bones, he called her. Still does. A term of endearment, if you will."

A pained smile curled Rachel's lips. "That's nice."

"Yeah, it is, Sweetie."

"Well, go on," Rachel said eagerly.

Angela drew a near silent sigh. "Right. Things went smoothly at first." She laughed ruefully and shook her head as if trying to rid the memories her comment had conjured. "Let me rephrase that: things went agreeably. Booth would be all _cop-ish_, Brennan would resent that, and then they'd lock up the bad guy, you know? Partners. That's what they were. Partners through thick and thin."

"Partners?" Rachel asked tentatively.

"Yeah, partners."

"What kind of cases did they work?"

"Murder, honey."

"Murder?" It was then when she realized the absurdity of it all. She was alone. She had left home with the hopes of finding answers, and she only found more questions. More ambiguity. More despair. Her parents—the ones who had abandoned her—solved murder cases. Murder. Death. No wonder she was given up.

"It wasn't all bad, Sweetie," Angela reassured. "We had fun. Bren and Booth, me and Hodgins, hell, Zach, too...We had fun in a twisted sort of way—"

Rachel cut her off without warning. "Why do you call everyone by their last name?" Admittedly, Temperance and Seeley weren't the most common of names, but surely there was another way to address people. Last names just seemed too impersonal.

Angela shrugged. "The F.B.I. does it, so we kind of took on the practice. But not all of us go by our surnames. Imagine Zach being called Addy…or me Montenegro…It depends on the last name, I suppose. Brennan just _works_. Booth just _works_. Hodgins just_ works_. Montenegro, Saroyan, and Addy just don't click, I guess."

"Oh. Sorry. Go on." Rachel had hoped there was a story behind it, but there were more important issues to dwell on. Much more important, indeed.

"Their—your parents', I mean—chemistry was undeniable. They fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. Granted, a very complicated, ten-thousand piece puzzle, but a puzzle nonetheless." She paused and emitted a girly sigh, much like that of a love struck teen. "Sound cheesy?"

Rachel nodded, not bothering to erase her smirk.

"Ah, well...They always say I'm just a hopeless romantic."

Rachel nodded and situated herself so as to accommodate for the plate stacked high with food that the waiter had placed before her. Gently, almost hesitantly, she reached for a fry from the golden pile and wedged it between her teeth. She munched on it, hoping to deflect any hints of apprehension. A calm façade, she reasoned, would ward off indications of uneasiness.

"You okay there, hun?"

Rachel looked up, trying to appear brave. "Yeah, sure. Really. I'm fine." Her voice, edged with anxiety, had failed her.

Angela swiftly reached across the table and joined her hand with Rachel's. "And here's yet another trait inherited from your mother." A wrinkle of dry humor wormed its way into her words.

Rachel dared to meet her eyes with Angela's. "And what trait would that be?"

"The tendency to hide your emotions till you're nothing but one frustrated wad of psychology."

Rachel sighed. She felt as though she was merely a shell; an empty, broken shell with all signs of life erased from existence. Maybe she really did hide her emotions. But it was so much easier that way. Less people constantly badgering her to cave and tell them what was bothering her, less tears and fears getting in the way of more important things, one less thing clouding her objectivity.

Angela tightened her grip on Rachel's hand, gaining her attention once more. "But you have to realize that the effects can be disastrous...catastrophic, even. Without an outlet, those pesky feelings just multiply. One of these days, those emotions that seemed so easy to just cast away are going to make their own outlet—they're going to explode. Don't learn that the hard way, Rachel. Don't make the same mistake your mother made."

"What did Mom do?" Rachel was barely restraining her tears. Heeding Angela's advice, she let a few slip down her cheek, sentiments of the abandonment and fear boiling in her blood.

"Are you sure you're ready Sweetie?"

Rachel nodded. She was ready. It was now or never. Regrets would have to wait. Traveling all this way, jumping through all of those hoops, rehashing what had been supposedly done and over with thirteen years ago...It wasn't all for nothing.

Angela nodded. "Booth and Bren finally came to an agreement. The day your dad took your mom on their first date, _I_ celebrated. Jack and I went out for drinks and watched every sappy romance movie I had to my name. The whole damned lab was happy, for pity's sake. It was six months of bliss. Their banter didn't stop, though. If anything, it just got worse as the days went by. But not once did I complain. Not once. I couldn't. How could I? I had been pushing for that since day one." Angela smiled broadly, presumably at her fond memories.

"So what happened?" There was a degree of darkness brought on with the inevitable question. "I mean, if they were happy, and if you were happy, and if everyone was happy, why? Why get rid of me?"

Angela sighed heavily and snuck one last swallow of coffee. It must've been those nerves again. "Yes, well...It was hard, Rachel."

---

**_Oh, more suspense! I was originally going to shove the whole bulk of answers into one, gigantic chapter, but this seemed to be a good place to stop, and as an author, I enjoy cliffhangers. It's my sincerest hope that you won't find my answers (which are on deck for the next chapter) to be borish or improbable. _**

**_When this story was first born, I had every intention of making it so that Brennan and Booth were dead, but then I came to the conclusion that that was nearly impossible to write without bawling my eyes out, not to mention that it would more than likely ward off any readers. Still, I liked the idea of Rachel, so I modified the plot a bit. I'm still a bit uneasy about the upcoming chapter...I hope that your reactions aren't going to be negative. So, until we get to that, drop a review and tell me what you think! If I did this correctly, there should be some foreshadowing weaved into this chapter. Feel free to make a few guesses!_**

**_Oh, and I attempted to add titles to the chapters. Not sure if they're very fitting, but it killed about twenty or so minutes trying to come up with them, thus saving me from boredom._**

**_Phew, that was quite the author's note!_**


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